


Can you benchmark a soul?

by SrebrnaFH



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Blindness, Burns, Coma, Cute Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Endgame went differently, Everyone loves Peter, Family, Found Family, Hospitalization, Infinity Gauntlet, Injuries Aftermath, Irondad, Magic, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Precious Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Precious Peter Parker, Protective Pepper Potts, Protective Stephen Strange, Protective Tony Stark, Scars, Serious Injuries, Temporary Blindness, Temporary Character Death, They live because fuck you AU, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, spiderson, temporary disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: The final battle with Thanos went almost the same in every reality.In at least one of them, however, it fell to someone else to deliver the final snap.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a plot bunny that accosted me on my way to the choir practice today.
> 
> This story is NOT related to the other MCU oneshots I've uploaded.

It had been his fault and noone else’s. It had been his damned fault, for not being quick enough, smart enough, observant enough. For not being enough, fullstop. Period. The end.

In hindsight the result was - must have been - easy to predict. The boy had always been an old soul, even at barely fifteen. Even as he had made fun of the kid, or scolded him, or outright berated him, he saw the bright core of the good spirit inside. If measured on the scale between Loki and Steve, the boy was already at the point of, maybe, probably, passing by Captain America on the pure and innocent metric.

Could one benchmark a soul? Baseline it? Here is Steve, here is Bruce, you are exactly mid-way between them, which gives you 0,75 of a Steve? But you are also as mischievous as a basket full of kittens, so I give you 0,05 of Loki? How can one measure a teenager who just wants to keep his neighborhood clean against a supersoldier or a PhD holder with pumped up muscles? How do you compare a young hacker to an immortal trickster god of ancient Norse legends?

How does one measure a boy against the men around him?

Pepper came and went, leaving a pot of tea and a symbolic kind of breakfast next to his elbow, on a secured platform over the flat screens.

Screens that had been silent and dark for the last three days. Ever since the battle.

He knew what hid beyond their dark surfaces. The AI he had built when sleeplessness chased him out of the warm bed, the hours upon hours of recordings - the apologies, the explanations, the tips and suggestions and anecdotes.

The pleas for Peter to take care of Morgan.

There. He had used his name, if in his thoughts only.

Tony inhaled slowly.

It had been all his fault. He got distracted. He had prepared the armour element for the gauntlet based on the Iron Man suit - just in case. He was the one who had forgotten that there may be more than one Iron Man class suit in that battle... if all goes well.

What was ironic, neither Rhodey nor Pepper would have been able to use it. He had played safe with Rescue’s suit, making it fully independent technically, and War Machine had his own security settings and protocols, nanites set to his own requirements.

Only the Spider-Man's - or, as he dubbed it quietly, Iron Boy's - light armour was fully compatible and based on the same nanite family. It was meant to enable Tony to override Peter’s suit in case of emergency, or to rapidly deploy a new solution or share an energy source... or, well, reconnect an accessory between the two, if he ever wanted for Peter to attach a thruster or a shield taken from Tony's own armor.

It had never been meant for Peter to pick up that particular accessory.

Not the gauntlet.

Never the gauntlet.

Helmet, air supply system, even a blaster, if the kid needed it.

But not the bloody gauntlet.

He swallowed, trying not to let the bitter tears fall.

He was not allowed an “I didn’t mean for it to happen”. He had to assume the fucking responsibility for his own actions. Or failings, as it was. Him not having meant it would not help Peter, or May, or any of the dozens of people who had died due to the tragic, technical delay.

If he wanted, he could probably count them. Correction, he was perfectly sure he could count them. He had more than enough sources of recordings, all angles, all little sub-battles, everywhere around the field. From Sam Wilson, to Ant Man, to not one but two Wasps, to Rescue. He was pretty sure Friday already had them all calculated.

Yet the only fall he could think of was one of a high school boy wielding the most powerful weapon in the known universe.

He didn’t need a recording for that. He had but to close his eyes and there it was.

 

 

_Thanos. Boasting._

_The feeling of nanites. Moving up his arm._

_The empty snap._

_The elation._

_His armor suddenly, treasonously, terrifyingly. Giving. In._

_A slender, quick movement by his side._

_A moan of pain and fear._

_A voice, raspy with heat and exhaustion._

_“And I... am... SpiderMan...”_

_Foolish boy, snapping his fingers._

_A choked cry._

_The world. Falling apart around them._

_The boy._

_Slowly. Slowly. Crumbling. To. The. Ground._

_Not literally, not in the way everything else was crumbling._

_Not literally._

_But close enough._

_Folding, like a tree cut expertly at the base._

_Right._

_Into._

_His._

_Arms._

_Tony’s hands shot out nearly automatically, catching him, holding the poor, damaged body to his own, covering the boy with his bulk. He stared into the slowly dimming eyes, trying to understand what had just happened._

_Chapped, dried out lips drawing into a loopy smile._

_“We did it, Mr Stark,” the boy whispered, voice barely audible over the clamour of the battle suddenly groaning to a halt all around them. “We got him,” eyes fluttered closed, but there was still a bit of a spark there. “We... we got him...”_

_“You got him,” Tony corrected softly, combing the fringe off the sweaty forehead with his bare hand. “You got them all, Peter.”_

_“Good,” the boy worked his jaw slowly. “Good.”_

_The lithe form in his arms shivered._

_And Rescue’s shape appeared suddenly on the other side of the boy in his arms. Pepper’s facemask was down, her eyes wide, on Peter’s face._

_“Give him to me, Tony,” she reached out. “I can still fly. I can carry him...”_

_He stood up slowly. Shook his head._

_“It is my burden to bear,” he said decisively. “He is my responsibility. It was my price to pay, not his.”_

_He faltered on the third step, went down hard, knee hitting the ground, and she was there, picking him up, transferring into her hold the weight of Peter Parker - negligible, forgettable, immanently discountable, if not for the guilt that burnt-out form represented. If not for the guilt._

_There were two bulky supports now at his sides, Rhodey’s facemask down, Sam’s wings folded._

_“Friday,” he groaned, “diagnosis. Repairs. I need to... I need to be...”_

_“Power surge,” the AI voice was cool and calm. “Servos in your left side are all down, I can’t access them. The gauntlet connection must have fried something. I can’t access them at all.”_

_“Take it off. Remove the armour, Friday. Now. I need to go to him. Need another suit, now.”_

_He never took his eyes off Pepper, walking in front of him, cradling the boy in her steel-encased arms. The protective angel of war, picking the most worthy up from that particular, dreadful battlefield._

_A figure of light landed next to her, hair streaming in a nonexistent wind, and a woman with eyes of flame touched the boy’s forehead._

 

He shook awake, gasping for air, shivering in the quiet coolness of the lab.

A ping. Something had pinged.

"Fr-friday?"

“Report on the armour analysis is ready, boss.”

“Go on,” he wasn’t really sure he wanted to hear it. Why did the gauntlet not work correctly with his suit? It should have meshed without any issues...

“The nanites in your armour were depleted energetically. The surge from the first stone connecting fried the couplings in your wrist, so the armour automatically ejected the whole section to avoid further damage. The secondary armour was much fresher, as it hadn't been taken through several hours of battle before. The security systems in Peter's nanites were of older generation, so his suit did not automatically reject the risky addition, and so he was able to connect and use the gauntlet."

He rested his cheek on the cool table.

“Friday,” he heard his voice break, “status update.”

“Princess Shuri reports a significant boost in the regenerative factor since the second blood transfer from Captain Danvers,” suddenly, Pepper answered instead of the house AI. “They are both very hopeful. Doctor Strange says that neurological damage will be substantial, but Peter’s natural - well, not really, but still, his own - healing powers are working towards rebuilding the lost structures.”

He leaned forward, resting his face in his hands.

“Just...” he swallowed. “I just need him to wake up, Pep. I need him to wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2019-07-08: formatting change.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because my brain tends to get stuck on some VERY random plot bunnies.

"He has been moved from the burn trauma room and is no longer in danger of contracting infections from any random bacteria. You should come and see him."

"I can't face him."

"We are not sure how well this is going until he wakes up, yes. And I want you there in case..."

"I... I can't. Sorry."

"I expected more from you."

"W-what?"

"Do you know that this boy worships you? When we were stuck on that planet, for these few minutes before I managed to call the portals, he wasn't shutting up. And I mean it. He is the loveliest, most adorable kid and he just seems unable to stay quiet and, especially, to stop quoting you or referring to you or just musing 'what would Mr Stark do'. I had to ask him four times to be quiet just so I could focus. Now you are telling me you can't move your steel-bound ass a few miles and visit him? That doesn't sound like Tony Stark that kid adores so much."

"Strange, I just... can't."

"Fine, whatever. Just don't come crying to me if you decide you should have and it's become too late for some reason."

 

####

 

Virginia Potts-Stark looked down at her husband, who was sitting on a rug, mechanically handing their daughter the pieces of a railway track she required. He wasn't looking very well. In fact, he looked wretched.

"Stephen Strange called me and told me you refused to go see Peter," she said softly. "Tony, what's wrong? I thought you'd be happy to visit him."

She saw his hand shake a bit.

"Not like this," he sounded grim. "I can't... Pep, I can't," he looked up, his eyes tense. "I can't. I saw him die in my arms, Pep. I'm not sure what to do if... He wasn't supposed to go like this."

"He is alive, Tony, and he is getting better. Stephen says they are reading activity in the sections of his brain that had been inert and covered with scarring until now. Peter's brain is slowly rebuilding itself. It will take months of physical therapy for him to regain mobility, but his prefrontal cortex and temporal lobe were untouched, which means that they expect no memory issues. There was some risk to the occipital lobe, but it has already begun to rebuild itself, and, well, his parietal lobe, to quote Stephen, is 'outside of standard specifications' so they are very, very hopeful."

"Hopeful," Tony mumbled, picking another piece of wooden tracks. "Expect. Noting activity."

"Tony, with injuries like the ones he had sustained, it's already a miracle..."

"Yes! That's exactly it! Injuries he had sustained, which are my fault! I can't watch him be like this, this... this..." he hid his face in his hands.

"Daddy, you should not be theatrical," Morgan patted his hand. "Our teacher at school says that if you feel about something so strongly you want to shout about it, you should _do_ something about it."

Tony sighed.

Pepper waited.

"OK," he said, voice choked with tears. "OK. Next time Strange calls, I go."

"We go," she corrected immediately. "Whatever happens, we both go. I want to see this through. I was holding him when Danvers as good as brought him back to life."

"Fine," he leaned on her knee and rubbed his cheek on the material of her skirt. "We go."

 

####

 

"He's awake."

...

"And he's asking about you."

"OK, we're on our way."

 

####

 

From the point of view of someone used to normal hospitals, Shuri's setup in the newly built Wakanda Embassy building was incredibly space wasteful. From the point of view of an American, it was utterly confounding.

Yet it apparently made sense to both the princess and the wizard, as he was the one to guide them down to the right room, before disappearing, with a sigh, to his "other duties" and surrendering them to the care of a man they met at the door to the large chamber. That man, who had checked their iris patterns and handprints - security reasons - and led them the final metres to Peter's screened-off section, was vaguely familiar to Pepper, but she couldn't place him. His face was so utterly forgettable and his entire outlook so bland - apart from the long Wakandan robe he was wearing, that is - that it made him a perfect background man.

That conclusion led her to a quick identification of the stranger, just as they reached the white wall concealing Peter from the rest of the room.

"Agent Ross," she smiled when he cocked his head in surprise.

"Miss Potts. Mr Stark," greeted them in an undertone. "Peter has just woken up today in the morning and had napped intermittently since, so you might have to give him a few minutes to become communicative again. Shuri will be along in a moment, as she is experimenting on the blood substitute she has produced from Captain Danvers' blood. It seems to have great regenerative capabilities and is perfectly compatible with human metabolism."

"Everett...?" they stepped closer and saw Peter struggling to sit up. The agent hurried to his side.

"Come on, lad. Slowly. Slowly. Your balance is still not perfect."

She felt Tony move impatiently next to her, but they both froze when the thick blanket slid down Peter's torso and they saw the terrifyingly red scars running radially from the shoulder and side towards his heart.

"Now, basic systems check. Your name?"

"Peter. Peter Benjamin Parker," the voice was rough and tired.

But what made Pepper press her fist to her mouth was Peter's face.

The burn reached the side of his neck, with a tendril of the ugly redness going up to his eye.

Or what would have been his eye, had not both of them been wrapped in thick bandage and dressings.

And then there was Peter's shaved bald head, exposing large surfaces of raised, angry scarring.

"Very well. What can you feel now?"

A pause.

"Warm. It's warm here, it's... it's a good temperature. Shuri set it up to warm, because my... my temperature regulation is not... is not online yet. I don't keep warm by myself."

"That's correct. Now, can you identify this touch? Where is it?"

"My left palm. Then my right thumb. My right elbow. Left shoulder."

"Very well..." Agent Ross looked up at them and nodded. "Stephen thinks you are up to some guests, but what do you think?"

Peter's lips pressed into a thin line.

"Aunt May was here in the morning," he said hesitantly. "Who else could want to see me?"

Tony took a step and then hesitated.

"I would," he answered huskily. "That is, unless you'd rather have me leave."

The boy froze for a split second and then turned towards them to hastily he must have pulled some muscle, as the next thing they knew he was sliding down to his pillow - assisted by Tony's supportive arm.

"Mr Stark," Peter's voice died and Pepper saw him struggling for something. "Mr Stark, are you OK? They wouldn't tell me, and I asked them - Aunt May got angry with me, but I had to know—!"

"Sh, sh," Tony drew the blanket higher up on the damaged young body and lowered himself to a chair next to the bed. "I'm fine. I'm OK. The suit took a few hits too many and the joint motors failed, but the shielding held. I'm so sorry, Peter. It's all my fault, and..."

"What?" the boy sat up again, trying to support himself on the wounded elbow, but crumpled down onto the soft bedding with a strangled moan. "Why would it be..."

"Because I didn't reconfigure your suit at any point," her husband looked up at her and she walked to the bed, putting her hand on his shoulder in support. "Your suit is - was - one hundred percent compatible with my armour. I could detach an element from my set and your suit would have accepted it, working with it without even time to adjust."

"B-but..."

"That made the gauntlet compatible with it, too."

"Oh."

A beat of silence.

"But, Mr Stark," the boy turned his blind face towards them. "What if you hadn't done it like this? I mean, Rescue was too far away, and War Machine - I didn't even see him. They would have been there even later, and many more people would have died. And there was nobody else for whom it would have worked, was there?"

"The gauntlet should not have worked for you," her husband said woodenly. "This should not have happened. It was... It was supposed to be me."

His head was down, so he never saw Peter's shaky hand reaching out.

"But, sir," the fingers patted Tony's hair somewhat hesitantly. "Even if the gauntlet had worked for you, you don't have my regen. Shuri says it's the only thing that had kept me alive long enough for Captain Danvers to intervene - and then until the first blood transfer. They say my blood is blue now, did you know? But... but if you had used it, it would have fried you. I didn't..." he paused, breathing slowly. "I didn't know it would be that bad. I kind of expected something to happen, and it hurt like hell when they connected - the last one was bad, it was like fire was poured down my bones, and I felt it all up to my teeth - and eyes - and brain... But I knew I had to do it - after he tried to snap and then, then your armour all shorted out - I saw the little sparks - I thought someone had to do it, and why not me, there is nobody closer anyway - and I snapped and..."

"When you were in the coma, I was worried about your speech centers. Now I'm starting to think they might have been affected, just not in the way I was worried about! Do you ever close your mouth?" Princess Shuri walked up to them with a box of some small objects in her hand. "I mean, do they feed you intravenously at home, or are you actually capable of chewing and talking at the same time...?"

"Shuri!"

"Coloniser," she nodded towards Ross, who rolled his eyes expressively. "Now, I need some access to my patient..." she frowned at them. "I thought he only had an aunt, nobody told me anything about parents."

"We've been in contact over the phone," Pepper explained quickly. "I'm Pepper Potts, this is Tony Stark."

"Oh, hello, Miss Potts," Peter turned to her in surprise. "I hadn't noticed you..."

"Hi, Peter," she leaned and patted his healthy hand. "I will take Tony home now, OK?"

"N-no, you don't have to. I mean, I'd rather..."

"You can come back tomorrow," Shuri offered. "Now, leave, please. I need to start..."

"No," Peter pulled away from her, reaching again to where Tony was sitting at his bedside. "No, they came to see me and you won't throw them out. I have to know things and nobody tells me anything!"

He fell back to the bed, clutching at the scars on his shoulder with a grimace.

Shuri glared at them with "look what you've done" written plainly on her face.

"Peter, listen to me," Tony stood up, putting his hands on the young man's shoulders, holding him immobile for a moment. "Listening to me, kid?"

Peter nodded jerkily.

"I am leaving a communication link to Friday with you. Here," he pushed the small red earpiece into Peter's shaky hand. "You can ask her anything. You can ask her _for_ anything. If you need to talk to me, or to Strange, or... or whoever. Use this link. If you feel like, I don't know, listening to the news, or anything, just ask Friday and she will find stuff for you. You have full access, Peter. Anything."

"B-but..."

"You, press this button, here, on the side," he moved the boy's fingers to the small control panel. "Friday, authorise Peter B Parker to all the resources, based on the provided voice sample," he said into his link. "Peter, say 'voice sample'."

"Voice sample?"

"Authorisation saved."

"Miss Shuri, who is authorised to access this room?" Tony turned to the Wakandan scientist.

The princess frowned.

"Me, Everett, Captain Danvers, Doctor Strange, Mrs Parker, two assistants and now, I suppose, you two - Stephen has the authorisation to add new people, but you are first ones he used it for."

"Very well. What are the security protocols in case of unauthorised entry?"

"There are guards, alarms, automated blockades of doors and, if everything else fails, well, there is Everett."

"The final, deadly weapon against all intruders," the agent smiled affably. "I've been assigned to help Shuri with any high-profile patients and their security concerns, and Peter is such a patient. What would be the security issue then?" he turned to Tony.

"There are people out there looking for Peter. They don't know it's him specifically, but there is always a risk someone will work it out. I don't want him to be put at risk I know that neither of you will give away his identity, but... who else knows?"

"Just whoever is authorised to this floor, plus T'Challa, Nakia and Okoye. They all understand that he wants to stay anonymous."

"Friday, potential surveillance and attack vectors, calculate. Put security on the most crucial points. Install our security in the building vis-a-vis - buy the whole thing, if you need to—"

"You can't just... order things like this!"

"You will find, your highness, that I very much can," Tony looked down at Peter's tense form, the young man clutching the link firmly. "Peter, I will call you every day, OK? If there is something that Friday can't explain and nobody else wants to tell you, you can always call me and ask. But I will be calling you every day anyway."

"Mr Stark...?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Can I... when I'm better, can I come back? And... And this time, do some actual, real work for you? I think I may not be... all that up to helping everyone... in the neighbourhood. But I can still do things that will help a lot of people, like, indirectly."

Tony squeezed Peter's good shoulder.

"Absolutely. You will have a lot of time now to think what you'd want to do - you can ask Friday to make notes of it, too, if you are afraid you may forget your ideas. But whenever you want to come back, there will be a lab waiting for you."

Pepper had a sudden thought that the lab in question would not be in any of the Stark Industries buildings. In fact, if her guess was correct, they'd be having the young man over for random visits much more often than a standard CEO would see their newly employed engineer face to face.

"Thank you, Mr Stark. I really wish... I appreciate it."

There was a shadow of exhaustion settling over the boy, so she pulled her husband up and away.

Shuri's tense stance relaxed minutely as she watched them.

"Very well," she said finally, not happy but apparently accepting the inevitable. "If you want to stay and see the next stage - if Peter is OK with it - you can sit there," she nodded towards a padded bench. "Now, Pete, over the next hour, after another dose of the blood so kindly donated by Captain Danvers, we'll be mostly removing the scar tissue from your hand with this fabulous new laser, so it may become warmer than comfortable at times, but mostly it will be just plain unpleasant."

Peter sighed and nodded.

"You don't have to stay," he turned slightly towards them. "It will be mostly boring and kind of annoying, I think."

Tony just squeezed his fingers.

"We'll stay. And then, if you still feel like it, we can talk."

Peter nodded tiredly.

"Now, you sit there," Shuri pointed to the bench again. "And don't interfere, whatever happens. This is a very delicate procedure."

They nodded mutely and sat uncomfortably, watching Peter's bed being slowly converted to a treatment table.

"He's a good boy," she leaned on his shoulder. "I think I know what you see in him."

Tony's lips turned up in a small smile.

"Well," he whispered back. "I definitely hope you agree with my choice of an apprentice."

Peter moved suddenly, resulting in a thorough scolding being delivered by Shuri.

"He can also hear us," Tony added, grimacing. "Forgot to tell you about that."

She didn't punch his shoulder for this, but it was a near thing. Very near.

Peter relaxed on the table, earning him a word of praise from the princess.

Yeah, she did. She did in fact agree with Tony's choice.

The youngster was way more than he had seemed based on casual acquaintance.

He was... promising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be more. Can't promise when.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Peter and Tony, a lot of Pepper and Tony.  
> Also, Tony wallowing in guilt and Pepper showing her steel core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I updated the chapter with better linebreaks. Not sure why some of them went in as br and some as p...  
> Edit 2: 2019-06-08: Half a sentence was somehow lost. Added it.  
> If you notice the text going somehow wrong, editing-wise, let me know, please.

"Friday, give me a status report."

"Princess Shuri has managed to clear off a significant section of scar tissue during yesterday session and she, Captain Danvers and doctor Strange are very hopeful about Peter regaining full use of his right hand. The nerve grafts done by doctor Strange are holding and it seems to be time to move on to the arm scarring. She reports that he is alert, conscious and reasonably fine, but in discomfort due to skin rawness."

"OK. Anything else? Did... did Peter need something? Request anything we should drop off there?"

A beat.

That meant AI wanted to stress something specific.

"Peter did not set his search history to private," Friday reported. "The queries he had tried yesterday were very limited in scope, however."

He nodded slowly.

"First eight requests were to the National Database, in search of his classmates. One of them had unfortunately been lost to a car crash directly after the Decimation."

He tapped his lip. He had had his hand in creation of the National Database, where people registered centrally the missing or the dead after the Snap and then, again, marked themselves as alive once Bruce had returned everyone he could. It was a mostly useful and effective service, despite certain - understandable - pushback from communities that felt their privacy would have been infringed on... He would have to put Pepper on it when they had time, help to rebuild the whole thing to make it more inclusive, less prone to manipulation and more accessible... Peter. Peter could have some ideas. Kids always saw these things from another angle. Put Peter and Pep on this, definitely. It would give Peter stuff to do, both socially and design-wise. He could probably get a lot of honest feedback from his friends - and their families - much more than Tony would ever hear.

He rubbed his hands and made a note to the effect.

"This definitely sounds like him. Anything else?"

"Well, the next three queries had been requests for details of his authorisation. To quote 'what did he mean by full access, Friday'. I have provided the high level summary of what kind of information he can now make use of. He had since requested an overview of some chosen pieces of documentation and asked me to take several notes and to send text messages to two of his classmates, informing them in general terms of his current state. They had responded with enthusiasm, as it seems their class has been rather... affected by the deaths directly after the Decimation."

Tony stood up and walked over to the window, trying to rein in the variety of ideas that nagged him. One, he had to choose one thing. One specific...

"How is his school doing? Actually, in general, what is the situation of the schools?"

"City, state, country, world-wide?"

He frowned and tapped the glass in frustration.

"Start with city and then widen the analysis. Financial data, attendance, technical issues, staffing issues, organisational problems, resources... Ah, and estimate the students potential on the job market."

"OK. This may take some time, as not all records are readily available online."

"Send enquiries. Hire a researcher or two to go physically to places you can't reach."

"Sure, boss."

"And what is it that you plan to do with this data, hm?" Pepper leaned on his back, reaching around him to hand him a mug of coffee. "Because as the CEO I would have to sign off on any significant cash transfers and other detail like this."

"I think we can help a few schools around the neighbourhood without affecting our bottom line too much."

"A few, yes, but how many do you want to help, finally?"

He huffed.

"As many as need it. Which is way too many, of course. I'd have to devise some kind of rating system - but then, which aspects should win? Should I help kids with the most potential, or ones that nobody else is going to actually bother with? Like Peter and his friends, for example - even though they are in a technically oriented high school, it seems  to be woefully underfunded. By the way, have you seen their results? I mean, I had a peek at what that girl does - what's her name, Friday?"

"Michelle, boss. Goes by 'MJ'."

"Michelle, exactly. What she writes about the government, well, better not to go into that, but her software design is truly inspired. She also seems to be the most level-headed of the whole class... Peter's friend, Ned? Some other kids in their computer lab group? Prime candidates to create something seriously helpful, something that could change the future... Considering we have about a billion less people than before the Decimation, what with the losses around both Snaps - all three of them, I suppose - we have to find the way to utilise the resources..."

"Shhh..." she caught his face in both hands. "Tony, stop. You can't save the whole world. Not right now, not this second. Focus. Step by step. What do you want to achieve? What do you want to do, really? What can you do?"

He took a shuddering breath.

"I want for people to stop dying because of stupid reasons. And they still do. Everywhere. There are shortages of everything, from food to power to stinking bandaids. We did it already once, after the Decimation. We should be able to do it again. It's just suddenly become so much harder to convince people that we have to keep working together..."

"You are not seriously suggesting it was somehow better the previous time?"

He shrugged and pulled her closer.

"It was definitely easier to talk to the third of the planet's politicians than to the whole bunch who came back from the nothingness and have problems adjusting to the fact that the world had moved on when they were not there. Some had even dared to claim that no time had passed at all and it's all a hoax to oust them from their offices..."

Pepper shivered. Yeah. They had both been witnesses to the great blow-up between the two available American presidents. With one of them screaming obscenities about a conspiracy and the other trying to defend the validity of her having been elected. The fact that the two had been rivals for the position years earlier did not help a bit.

"There are entire countries suddenly changing hands again and there is nobody on the global scale who could decide which way is more just or proper. Not to mention religious wars..."

Religious wars. Oh, yeah. They had found out - the hard way - that nothing made religious nutjobs more active than an apocalypse they had lived through (the second place was taken by an apocalypse they had missed due to being broken up into dust in the process of it having happened) and the two of them had already seen their names being listed among the saints, demons, antichrists and even as The Prime Reasons the Whole Thing Had Happened. Not everyone specified which Thing they meant. It gave them such a nice flexibility of options.

There were also many, many movements were very much interested in the identity of the person who had snapped the unearthly aggressors out of existence. Some wished to put him above their altars, some to put him on their altars - as a human sacrifice, no less. Some wanted for the Miracle Worker to come and smite their local enemies. Some wanted the Red Demon to be damned to the fires of hell for not allowing the Purification Army (yes, there were idiots out there who claimed Thanos to be the Will of God (God of their choice)) to progress and cleanse the Earth. In short, the world had become much more dangerous, twisted and plain crazy since the Decimation had been reversed. And very risky for anyone who had been identified as having taken part in The Final Standoff

As Bruce had managed to create his public image as Smart Hulk in the "Meanwhile" period, now he had to isolate himself from the general population in order to avoid all the craziness, as, unfortunately, he had been identified as the person who performed the Return snap and so was a highly sought-after kind-of-celebrity (with an unhealthy amount of haters as usually attached to that kind of situation). Spending time in the New York Sanctum was, it turned out, his preferred choice, and Strange allowed it without questioning Bruce's reasons, while applying all possible treatments to Hulk's very treatment-resistant injuries.

Peter being the second person to wield the Gauntlet and still nameless to the public, his security was of utmost priority, until they could get him back into a working shape and allow him to return to school as if he had been an innocent victim of the aftermath of the Return, like so many others. Having been anonymous all the time and successfully covering his tracks with his friends, he was, for the time being, quite safe.

Hopefully.

Unless someone worked out that his disappearance and then reappearance and then the wound patterns...

"A call from Peter Parker, boss," Friday chimed softly.

"Accept!"

There was a soft sound on the other side of the line.

"Peter?"

"Mr Stark," the boy sighed. "Just... I'm so sorry. I just wanted to check... are you sure you wanted to give me all that... all that access...?"

"Yes," he answered immediately. "I can't have you work with me and keep you away from the vital documents."

"B-but, it's... it's so much, so much of everything... I mean, Friday is now only making summaries for me, but I have so many ideas - all this, all this tech, and I... Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," he strode towards the window, smiling at Pepper, who sat on one of the tables, watching him. 'Peter,' he mouthed and she nodded. "Kid, I know what I'm doing. This is my playground, my sandbox. Well, officially it belongs to Pepper, but she usually lets me take the best toys home. I'm sure she won't begrudge anything my new junior engineer may wish to utilise, as long as it's in reasonable manner."

"So, no blowing things up?" Peter joked weakly.

"Not unless I'm there to watch."

Pepper hid her face in her hands, peeking at him from between her fingers.

"I think... I think I have an idea, sir," the boy's voice still wasn't all that strong. "I've... I've asked Friday to make notes of it, if you want to see it. Well. Them. More than one... idea."

"Ah," he paused. "Are you OK with it? Me checking your notes? That's your stuff. Your intellectual property."

Peter sighed.

"Yeah. Anything that is in my notes. I can put some official... note on them, if it helps. Friday, what... do I put on the notes to make sure... Mr Stark can make use of them?"

"Peter, are you feeling OK?" he noticed he was straining to hear the boy's words more and more. "Friday, status report, now!"

A weak "I'm fine, sir," mixed with, "He's in distress, boss, calling doctor Strange and princess Shuri," in his ear and he leaned his forehead on the wall, waiting.

Waiting.

Steps, voice.

Shuri.

Berating Peter for something, unclear.

The link being moved.

"Stark?" sharp voice of the young scientist came through loudly.

"Yes. I'm sorry, he started sounding as if there was something wrong, Friday..."

"Very good call. I must thank you. He is feverish, over 102. I'm suspecting an infection from one of the burns after all. We are taking him for a check and then back to isolation room. I'll update you soon, when we have new results."

"Thank you," he managed to whisper before she clicked the connection off.

He slid slowly down the wall, resting his forehead on his knees.

A cool, narrow hand came to rest on his neck, rubbing it in slow circles.

"He is ill, Pep," he whispered as she sat down next to him. "He called me, he was feverish, and I hadn't noticed anything wrong. I just thought he was tired from the treatment."

"Shuri is taking care of him, isn't she? You spoke to her? She has a general physician there, I know."

"Yes, and Friday also called Strange in. I just... I just wish I could do more. I wish there was something else I was good for - apart from blowing things up and letting kids like him die on my watch."

She smacked him slightly on the back of his head.

"Peter isn't dead," she said sharply. "And this wallowing in guilt is starting to get old. Now, get a grip and try to think, what can you do to help him. What does he need? What does Shuri need? Is there something Stephen may think he'd need but did not think to ask you, for whatever reason? Something Peter may need?"

"Peter asked me to read his files," he said, mechanically. "He wanted me to see something, some idea that he had using the existing tech. Friday, send a message to doctor Strange, request feedback and ask if there are any resources he may need for Peter. And send Peter's note files to my desktop."

"Done, boss," the AI answered immediately. "Princess Shuri says the fever is most probably the reaction to yesterday treatment and the fact that Peter managed to twist one of his IVs by accident and became slightly dehydrated. He is still having problems with body temperature, as his hypothalamus and pituitary gland are both not regrown enough."

Pepper frowned.

"Tony, should we be even hearing this? I mean, he is an adult and we are not his family, it should be his Aunt May, not us..."

"Shuri isn't actually a doctor," he reminded her. "At least not in the strict sense of a registered medical professional in US. And Strange... he plays by his own rules. I'm sure they are sending the same reports to May, but..." he sighed. "Strange was there with us, on that awful planet. I think he saw it all happening anyway, long before it did happen. He applies somehow... a different metric to Peter. And, anyway, Pep, what's the sense in being an arrogant, self-centered dick if I can't make use of it from time to time and check on my favourite assistant? By the way, I will have to create a proper job description for him, I suppose..."

A kiss was pressed to his temple.

"Let him get better first. Also, creating job descriptions is more of a CEO thing. At least in case of my company."

"And what am I supposed to be in said company?" he asked testily, pushing himself to his feet and walking over to the table.

"The name, the pretty face and the head of the independent research and design department," she clicked something on her tablet. "Voila. The department, as of now, consists of two employees, one of which is one Anthony Edward Stark and, assisting him, on a position of junior engineer, Peter Benjamin Parker. There, done. He has a proper salary and is now officially on a paid sick leave due to a work-related accident. Retroactively on payroll since the Return. Congratulations, department head."

He shook his head slightly at her frivolity, but pulled her closer as he called the files Friday had deposited on his main desktop and started paging through them. Some notes were very highlevel, but three files went deeper into details. Peter must have...

"He overexerted himself telling Friday all of this and that's why he is sick now," Pepper commented with regret. "The least we can do right now is to have a look at it. Scroll on. This is fascinating."

A description of skin graft implant based on Peter's own web structure and some high-tensile material he had dug up from Friday's banks. Tony hadn't even known they had a patent for something like that.

A piece of software - scraps of code, some of it only in comments and general pseudocode to show the logic, some of it in Python - that was supposed to calculate - he frowned - ah. The fluctuations of demographics, but what did he use from the databanks...? Tony frowned as he saw some beginnings of machine code matching one of the big calculation datacenters. Ah. Using the National Database to predict population growth and pinpoint the next baby booms. What did they teach in schools these days?

"Very useful in any industry," Pepper breathed. "If you can make this work, companies will be killing themselves to get this data."

"What..."

"Imagine you're a car seat producer. Or you manufacture powdered milk. Or have a school. Or _anything_ else that involves children. Clothes...!"

 _Indeed_. He squeezed her hand slightly.

And to think that there were people out there who would have discounted Pepper Potts as nothing more than a pretty face and a pair of lovely legs. Well, he had used to. But he had grown smarter since...!

He clicked the half-code, half-ramble document closed.

The last one was seemingly rather... common. One page of short, terse sentences, a description of a not-so-novel usage of the energy storage unit Stark Industries had prototyped barely a month before Return and had not yet implemented on a larger scale. It delineated the potential application of the unit for light, long-distance vehicles, with the addition of solar panels to recharge the whole installation from. Tony frowned at the document, trying to understand what the catch would be, which element would be in any way innovative or groundbreaking, as he had started to expect from Peter (the boy had invented the correct composition for his webbing at fifteen...!), but it seemed entirely... unexceptionable.

Until he scrolled down to the description of the other installed equipment - still all taken from elements now produced by Stark Industries - and saw the vehicle for what it was. A self sustained survival capsule. There were modules for water reclamation, storage for condensed food (SI brand, too), waste disposal and air refreshing. Everything economically put in, the capsule almost like a tiny spaceship but destined for wandering on the surface of a planet.

"A Life Pod," Pepper marked the note with her caption. "Web Skin Graft and Demographic Fluctuations. Friday, mark them as internal, family grade. Include Peter in the family authorisation group."

"He's already in it, Pep," Tony informed her softly and saw her eyebrows rise, just a smidgen.

"It's a lot of work," she stretched the display to show all three main documents and additional pieces that Friday had visualised as post-it notes all around them. "He must have been up all night, silly boy...!"

And all of this based solely on listening to the AI feeding him nearly random choice of data and him dictating the observations he had theorised on in his mind. A true exercise in thought experiment. And the code! He had to dictate the code...!

"He hasn't been very interested in medicine before," he frowned at the display. "His regen factor makes him rather wary of normal doctors."

"He's been stuck in there for weeks now, even if unconscious. He might have heard them talking about it often enough. Maybe something filtered in when he was in the coma. They say people hear a lot when they are like this, in fact."

"A message from Stephen Strange, boss."

"Read it, Friday."

"'I need someone to tell that boy to stop trying so hard, or I will break his scrawny neck. Other than that, there are several pieces of diagnostic equipment we could use and Shuri hadn't had time to procure. List attached.' and there is the list, boss."

"Find if we have anything from the file in our storages, get it delivered to the Embassy. Anything else, order, barter for or steal. Just get it done."

"Boss, a message from Peter Parker."

"Read it!"

"'I'm feeling better now. Sorry to worry you, Mr Stark. I'll try to be less trouble in the future.'"

He swore, trying to rein in his temper.

"We have to do something with this, Pepper."

"With this what? And what do you mean?"

He turned her and enveloped her in an all-encompassing hug.

"This all. All this shit that happened around us in the last few weeks. That kid. I mean - he says he is sorry he is sick...! Did I ever give him a reason to think I'd be mad if he was less than perfect? Yes, I expected stuff from him, I still will. But I'm not expecting him to be super-superhuman! At this point, I'll settle for 'alive and in working condition', we can deal with everything else later. And I have to find some way for him to slow down a bit. Just a bit."

She hummed and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"You are a great father, Tony," she sighed, leaning back in the tight circle of his arms.

"I think Morgan would mostly agree with you. Well, unless it comes to spinach. I'm a very, very bad father when spinach shows on the table."

She smiled, a bit weakly, and shook her head.

"I didn't mean Morgan, love."

He frowned fiercely and looked down at her flat stomach with a questioning face.

"No, I am most certainly _not_ , you genius. And before you start speculating and overthinking, I meant Peter."

"P-Peter..." he trailed off as she freed herself from his suddenly loose hold and pressed another kiss to his lips. "What... how...? Why?"

Pepper looked at him from over her reading glasses.

"Stop being obtuse, Tony. It doesn't suit you."

"But, Pep... I never... I mean, I don't..."

"I know. He is not yours, Tony, and both you and he are quite conscious of that fact. And that's perfectly OK. But you can't deny that you just want to take care of him. That he is a nice, well-mannered, reasonably self-assured young man with a great potential for career in the same industry as you work on - everything that you could have asked for in an apprentice. Or a son."

He shook his head weakly.

"And you do see how he looks at you for approval - how he listens to everything you tell him?”

“If he had listened to me more, he would not have found himself on that blasted planet...!”

“And both you and Stephen would not have survived the way there, because it was Peter’s idea to space that alien, right? You’ve told me so many times how quick he was on his feet and how useful he was in action. Don’t you think it deserves some appreciation?”

“If he had stayed home...!”

“You’d not be here to argue with me,” she cut him off swiftly. “He worships you, Tony. And I like him, you know. As in, if he had been your actual kid from some previous marriage, I’d try to be the best stepmother possible to him. He isn’t and I can’t but I’m just saying."

He snorted at the absurdity of the idea.

"Twenty years ago I was a blindingly inconsiderate, terrifyingly unreliable and astonishingly personally irresponsible person. And very, very much of a dick. I'm sorry, Pep, but I was. Had I managed to produce a kid in these days, I would have messed him up so thoroughly the theoretical mother would have moved to Europe to avoid me. Now, Peter is a gift, in a way. I'm getting him preconfigured. He has been set on the best possible course by his uncle Ben and aunt May and he keeps to the straight and narrow under her eye. All the influence I may have on him is... limited. Thankfully."

"Self-flagellating again. I will ask Friday to set up alerts when you do this. You wouldn't have been a bad father, Tony. Maybe a bit eccentric. Spoiling your offspring a lot. Probably using inadequate language. And yes, I know where Morgan learns all these swearwords and it's not from Happy. You'd probably fail a lot," she combed away the stray curl from his forehead and he leaned into that touch, closing his eyes. "But then they'd love you. The way Peter does. You are filling in some hole in his life and he is filling in a hole in yours."

"But, Morgan..."

Pepper grabbed his face and forced him to look at her, reminding him how strong these deceptively slim fingers were.

"I know and you know that Morgan will always be our priority," she said sternly. "But we both also know that forty five is _not_ the optimum time to have your first kid. We are both old parents, Tony. Peter is the kid you should have had, if not for the way your life had been... meddled with."

"Pep," he tried to interrupt her, but she shushed him.

"You would have been thirty-one when he was born. Thirty-five when he started preschool. Forty when he needed your help with a science project. And forty-five when he had his first crush. And you would have been there for him. And if not for the general fuckuppery happening in your life, so would have your parents. And whatever you say about your father, imagine him having to deal with someone as unbearably cute as Peter must have been at ten."

"But I wouldn't have had you," he managed to say finally. "Or Morgan."

"Yes, but you do have us," she countered. "You have us, but right now, you can also have Peter. You only have to talk to him properly. Tell him he is important not because of what he can give to the company, but because he himself is important. And that means he has to take care of himself and not risk his health like this."

He swallowed and nodded.

"OK," he croaked, his throat completely choked with all these uncomfortable emotions that Pepper had managed to stir in him. "OK, I'll talk to him."

He reached for the water he had left on the shelf and greedily sucked out a mouthful.

"If you don't, I will go to him myself and ask if he wants you to adopt him."

Heroically, he managed not to spray her with said mouthful.

"Pep..."

"That's a drastic measure, yes, but one I am willing to apply. Unless you manage to talk to him in the next two weeks. Counting from now."

_Oh, shit._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slow recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count is provisionally 9, but who knows what exactly blows up and makes one of them as big as three others?  
> ch5 is half-written, ch6 requires review and editing, ch7 some review, ch8 a review and a heavy redo and the last chapter is written and 99% ready.  
> I'm the sad case of non-linear writing.

He woke up sore, tense and so tired that he checked the time on the pad by his bedside twice. Indeed, he had slept for full six hours. Supposedly. Probably.

There was always an option of asking Friday for recording of his night, but he could be pretty sure he'd just see his sad, neurosis-ridden ageing self tossing and turning until his sweet, angelically patient wife picked up a spare blanket and went to sleep with their daughter. Not that Morgan was in any way a calm sleeper, but at least she took much less space than he did. Supposedly.

He tried to massage at least part of the tension from his temples and jaw before he joined his ladies in the living room, but it seemed like a hopeless case, as with every minute spent awake the tension grew and grew, making his heart constrict ever so tighter in his chest. He leaned a bit forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hiding his face in his shaky hands, when the bed behind him dipped and a warm weight attached itself to his back.

"Mommy asks if you are awake enough for a cisi— cili— civilisi conservation."

"Civilised conversation?"

Morgan made an angry sound and burrowed in closer.

"Mommy says you will have to go to a hospital today again. Why are you going to a hospital? Are you sick? Or is Mommy sick?"

She sounded suspicious. Quite rightly, too. They had excluded her from the whole... mess. Mostly. In a large measure.

Bugger.

"Well," he started, turning and picking her up to quickly hoist her upwards, over his head. "Your Daddy may be old, but he is not decrepit enough to be unable to do this! And Mommy is quite healthy, too. But we promised we would visit Peter, who doesn't feel very well."

"Peter?" Morgan suddenly stopped squirming and folded in half, looking him straight in the eye. "What Peter? _That_ Peter? The Peter from the stories...?!"

"Peter, yes. That Peter from the stories, pumpkin. He is back, just like all these people everywhere, because doctor Banner has brought them... back. But many people are ill after all these years and Peter has had... a nasty accident. Now, he has some very good people taking care of him, but he is very, very sick. He had very high fever yesterday and we still hadn't heard back from his doctors. So I am... a bit worried, you see."

"But Peter is... is, like, a superhero! You told me yourself, he is strong, and brave and..." her chin wobbled in distress. "How can Peter he sick?"

"Even Peter can be ill, if it's bad enough. Anyone else would have been... Well, much worse off. He just got a bit of a high temperature."

"Why does he have to be in the hospital for this? When I had fever, Mommy gave me that nasty syrup and I got better. Can she give the doctors that syrup, to make Peter better, too?"

"I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated."

The bed dipped on the other side and Pepper rolled closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"It seems the nasty syrup will not be needed," she replaced her phone on the shelf above the bed. "The fever has broken, Shuri says. It seems there was, after all, an infection, but Stephen dealt with it with appropriate application of antibiotics and his _other skills_. It seems that if there is one person that girl is in awe of, it's Strange."

"I hope it stays that way," he murmured, while still keeping Morgan up in the air as she stretched and posed as a mermaid above their heads.  
"Give her a month and she will start trying to analyse his powers and replicate it with one of her computers."

"I'd much rather she didn't, Pep. Keeping magic and computers apart may just be the best option for us for the future. I keep having a vision of Ultron coming back - and this time, he can manipulate time!"

"That would be less than optimal, indeed."

He lowered their little elf to the bed between them and reached out for his Stark Pad.

"Come here, Miss Potts. Put on your CEO hat and tell me what you think about it."

"And what would that be?"

"A new energy storage solution, based on one of Peter's notes. And maybe something for Peter to work on, once he is back home."

"Tony..."

"Hmm?"

"Do you know that when you say 'back home' you automatically nod towards the guest room?"

"W-well, not that I meant to, but..."

"That guest room that you've recently ordered to be redone, without even telling me, including the handholds next to the bed and in strategic points in the ensuite?"

He inhaled with a hiss.

"Yeah. I know. I should have told you."

"That too, but, what's most important, you should tell Peter."

"A-ah, I was thinking about it and kind of considered the best possible moment and, well, not to affect his recovery, so, well, I don't think I can do it right now, I mean, he is still in a rather delicate..."

"Mr Stark, would you please shut up? Either you go and talk to your almost son in the next ten days or I will."

He looked up at her from where he had been tickling Morgan's captive left foot.

"OK. OK, I will. Not today though. He'll be sleeping for most of it, I suppose."

"Fine. But tomorrow...?"

"I'll try tomorrow."  
  
####  
  
Hey, kid. I promised I'd call, but today has been a bit more full than normal, so, well. Not really a good justification. Just explanation. I asked Friday and she says you are asleep now, so I asked her not to wake you up, but to record the message and she will tell you about it when you are awake. Which is now, from your point of view.  
Anyway, yeah. So. There is this thing.  
I've had a look at the documentation you've created. I did it already that first evening - I think I was looking for something to do while Shuri was working out what was wrong with you - and Pep has seen the files, too. Don't worry when you see the new security setting on them. It just means nobody but the three of us can access that resource. And from now on all your new entries will be by default set like this, unless you unset them.  
So what I wanted to say is that Pep liked them. I definitely liked them! The one for the pod is something I'd like to discuss a bit more in-depth with you, but Pep is drooling over that demographical prediction model. She says there are people trying to put together stuff like this, but yours seems to be uniquely flexible. I think it's a compliment. Now, in order for you to continue working on them, there is just one condition.  
Get. Better.  
As long as you keep improving and stop trying to endanger your life by staying up all night immediately after you've recovered from a coma, you will be able to come and work on them. The sooner the better, says the CEO. So, please, take care of yourself and try not to overdo it, OK, kid?  
I will be visiting tomorrow or the day after, whenever Shuri and Stephen tell us it's possible. I don't want to add unnecessary pressure to your recovery and come before they allow us, so don't try to do anything stupid and get worse by accident. Just listen to the nice doctors and rest.  
Please.  
I really need you to take care of yourself.  
I mean, seriously. Not for the company or anything.  
I need you to just... just get better.  
I'll tell you more when I'm there in person.  
Bye, kid.  
  
####  
  
Peter wasn't looking much better.

He wasn't much worse either.

Still way too thin, still too pale, still much too sick.

But, according to Shuri's report, out of the woods, at least where the last fever was concerned.

He lowered himself to the chair next to the wide, multifunctional bed.

"Hey, kid."

"Hi, Mr Stark..."

It was a pretty weak whisper that stood in contrast to the way Tony remembered Peter - the only way he wanted to remember him, the way he wanted the kid to be - a chatterbox who only by sheer miracle and good luck did not aspirate half of the food he consumed. But it was something. His kid was still somewhere, in there.

"You look a bit wrung out here, Peter."

"Tony!" Pepper's soft reprimand made Peter's lips twitch, maybe even into a hope of a smile.

"Well, what am I supposed to say?"

"S'fine," Peter's left hand came to lie upon the edge of the bed, open, palm up, trusting. He couldn't not make use of the occasion and so he caught it, carefully, just to give Peter some semblance of human contact. Judging from the nervous jerk of the long fingers under his, the kid must not have expected anything. But he certainly deserved it.

"Sorry, kid. You look much better than you did, actually."

They sat quietly for a moment, Pepper leaning on his shoulder, Peter holding on to his fingers, while the reality happened to other people, far away from there.

"I listened to your message, Mr Stark," Peter broke the silence.

Suddenly, Tony felt embarrassed.

"Oh. OK. Yeah. I probably rambled a bit, didn't I?"

"No, not really... But, I mean... what did you mean by, you know. Not for the company?”

He sighed.

“OK, let me explain, just... Need to find the right words... Pep? Help...?”

His wife made a tutting sound, but straightened on the edge of the bed, adding her fingers to the hold on Peter's hand.

“The thing is, Peter... I may be guilty a bit of threatening him to say this, but it’s complete honest truth. He claims he gets hives from talking about feelings, so it requires a bit of a blackmail to get him to actually say some things if he deems the topic 'too mushy'.”

“O-ok, Miss Potts,” Peter smiled weakly, but then his hand caught hers and he traced his fingers over her ring. “Oo-or, Mrs Stark...? Oh, my, I mean, I’ve been calling you by the wrong name all that time, I’m so sorry, I-I- didn’t mean, I mean, sorry...!”

She squeezed the nervously fluttering fingers quickly.

“It’s perfectly OK, Peter. I didn’t correct you the last time, not your fault you didn’t know. Miss Potts is fine, too, in case you slip. I will never be angry at you for this.”

The boy smiled again, and sighed.

“So many things I missed, right? I wish I’d seen this...”

_So did we, kid. So did we._

Tony cleared his throat.

“So, Peter...” he chewed his lip for a moment. “I have to tell you - I need you to understand that, internalise that, breathe that... are you ready?”

The part of Peter’s face visible under the dressings paled even further and he clutched Pepper’s fingers spasmodically.

“Peter, you can’t do these things to yourself,” Tony reached out to touch the heavily bandaged shoulder, but stopped short of it and, hesitantly, cupped the boy’s cheek in his palm. “You have to take care, to get better. Not because of the company or... whatever. Because of you."

"B-but I didn't... I mean, it wasn't the first night I've..."

The boy fell silent and Tony felt him trembling as he breathed slowly.

"This wasn't the first night you've worked through until morning," he said softly. "But it was the first night after you've awoken from several weeks of actual coma. And brain damage. And neural damage. All of which has used up your resources in a significant fashion. You have to remember that you aren't as strong as you used to - or you are, but your whole strength is being used up by your body, trying to work around the injuries. You had burns on nearly forty percent of your skin. Your lungs stopped working, your heart stopped. Pepper was holding you, Peter, when you actually died for a few seconds. You _died_. I..." he had to take a calming breath - or five, "I can't lose you again, Peter."

The kid bit his lower lip.

"I just wanted to write down things before I forgot them," he sighed. "I won't do it again."

And he moved away, rolling in the direction of the window, tugging his fingers out of Pepper's light grasp.

No, no, no. Not that. Not _that_.

"Peter," he pulled slightly on the good shoulder. "Petey, come on. Turn to me. I know you can't see us, but I wanted to say something... OK. I will tell you like this. Pepper has... Pepper has done a few things in recent years. Married me, poor delusional woman. Taken over all aspects of running the company - officially and in fact. She made me a director of a department recently. Very recently."

Silence.

"That department consists only of me and one other employee. And I don't think it's going to grow in any foreseeable future."

The shoulders curled up a bit, a defensive gesture if Tony had ever seen one.

"That other employee being one Peter Parker, junior engineer in the independent research and design department of Stark Industries," he said. And watched.

The tension did _not_ disappear from Peter's shoulders as he had expected.

"Peter," Pep moved him away and sat closer to the bed. "Peter, Tony is being very serious, he just isn't phrasing it properly," she shot him an impatient glance. "I have, indeed, set up it like this. Officially, you are an SI employee. On a sick leave, a prolonged one. For as long as is needed. You will need weeks and weeks of physical therapy and nobody expects you to show up ready to work just yet. What I'm saying - and what Tony is saying, I think, is that you don't have to worry. You don't have to prove yourself at all cost. All we need from you is to get better, darling."

Tony held his breath. His wife going into the mothering mode was a powerful thing, but who knew how the hell a modern teenager was going to react to being called 'darling' in particular...?

This particular modern teenager sighed. And relaxed his tense stance at last.

"Now, can I have a promise out of you, Peter?"

"Hm?"

The boy rolled back towards them, hand again falling on the mattress, open, vulnerable.

Pepper hooked her fingers through Peter's loosely.

"Don't overdo it. If you feel better one day and worse the next, tell someone. It doesn't have to be one of us, if you don't feel comfortable with the idea, but it can. Just like Tony said, anything you want. Anything you need. Friday is your link with the world. And..." she looked up and back at him, smiling sadly, "please remember that you don't have to prove that you are bigger and tougher than the others. You are one of us already."

"W-what do you mean?" Peter's voice broke, just a little bit.

Pepper leaned over the bed and pressed a kiss to his brow, just over the edge of the bandage.

"You are an Avenger, Peter," she said simply, straightening. "And there is a whole team anxious to meet you. So... get better? For us? Please?"

It seemed for a moment that Peter had stopped breathing, but finally he inhaled loudly.

"OK," he nodded choppily. "I will. I promise."

"Good, kiddo," he patted the healthier shoulder. "Remember, call us day or night, whatever you need. And, well, you know. If you need someone to just sit with you, I can be here in twenty minutes."

"I'll remember. Thank you, Mr Stark."

"Call me Tony, kiddo. It will be easier on us both."

Peter's smile was sweet, even though Tony couldn't see his eyes.

"No can do, Mr Stark. But— thank you—"

He definitely had to teach that boy to let go of that "Mr Stark" business, or his workplace would become rather stiff and official.

"See you tomorrow, Peter."

The only sound that came from the bed was a soft snore.

The patient was sleeping.

Just as he should be.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May is stubborn, Tony is even more so.  
> Stephen is surprisingly caring.  
> Morgan is unsurprisingly curious.  
> And Peter is... Peter.

May Parker was stubborn.

But so was he.

"He should be going back home."

"Well, you live on the fourth floor."

"You live on the fiftieth!"

"But we have a lift. Right up into the penthouse. Also, it's flat inside. We don't have any communication barriers. And let's not kid ourselves, he is not going to be walking immediately. Stephen is pretty sure he will, generally speaking, but even with Peter's regenerative factor and Stephen's patches and Shuri's treatments they can't be sure when it will happen. It will be much sooner than it would have happened with anyone else - I mean, if anyone else _was_ able to get any kind of working treatment for fried spine nerves - but it will take time. And what will you do in the meanwhile, keep him at home for months...?"

"He is my nephew and I will take care of him...!"

A beep on the line alerted him to another person joining the call and, indeed, there was his wife, fresh from her workout, still in the slightly ratty yoga pants and his t-shirt, in the chair next to him, stretching her right leg towards him. He caught her ankle and started massaging it, waiting for her input.

"May, hi, it's Pepper. Don't pay attention to him, he is just grumpy because he can't do anything to make Peter better right now. But he has a point. After a fashion. Peter will need to be able to move around without someone's constant assistance. As long as he is in the wheelchair, it will be better for him to be in a place without raised doorsteps and narrow hallways... and that's what we are offering. If you want to stay over with him, we have enough space for everyone. We do have, after all, a whole tower...!"

"It's not that, Pepper, and I... I am grateful for your care, but I wish..."

"You wish your nephew had never met us and never got himself involved in all that mess."

They heard her curse softly.

"I didn't say that, Tony."

"But it's what you meant. And I don't blame you. I totally don't blame you. For his own good, I wish the kid had never met me. That he had never been bitten by that damned spider. That he had never lost his uncle or his parents. Or that you hadn't raised him to be such an upstanding, honourable little shit. But you did, he did, the spider did and I have met him and because of all this, the kid had saved the entire goddamn world. And I can't say I detest the result - I'm just not happy with the personal price Peter had paid. All I can do now is to make him more comfortable as he tries to find himself a place in the new reality."

"It sounds so... terminal."

"Unlike standard human beings, Peter is capable of overcoming this kind of injury, so fortunately it's more of a annoyingly long wait rather than a permanent situation. What Tony meant to say is that Peter deserves some rest, quiet and dedicated care, and we are uniquely able to provide just that. For example, to make it easier for him, all the needed physical therapy could be done in one of the medical offices downstairs... so instead of wasting hours on his way to his appointments, he'd be able to just take the lift."

"You two are _uniquely able_ to change my mind despite my convictions. OK. Fine. Yes, thank you, Peter will be much better off staying with you until he is mobile. And I won't plague you with my presence on daily basis, as my commute to the hospital would have become ugly, but I will be dropping by."

"Thank you, May. I mean it."

She sighed.

"I don't want to sound like a grump, Tony," she finally muttered. "It's just been pretty hard, these last few weeks. At least the hospital really needs everyone who is willing to work, so I have a job, but other than that..."

"May..." Pepper licked her lips and glanced at him fleetingly. "May, Peter has a job, too. I mean, I suppose he might not have believed us, or... or he didn't remember we've told him, since he's been so tired, but as his guardian, you'll have to come in and sign the papers."

"W-what papers?"

He found himself being shooed away as Pepper launched into an explanation of Peter's current situation. Well then, it was time to check on Little Miss Stark then.

Morgan was in the enclosed garden they had started in the Tower soon after the Decimation, before she was born. Happy was watching her - mostly making sure she would not jump into the small pool under the concrete waterfall - and Tony stretched out on the grass next to the small orange tree and took off his glasses.

"Daddy!" Morgan's squeak was the only warning before she jumped on his stomach in excitement. "Did you see Peter? How is he? Is he getting better? When can I see him? Will he want to be my brother? Does he like LEGOs? Does he like Pokemon? Daddy? What does Peter like?"

"Stop, stop, stop," he caught her and brought her into an immobilising hug. "I'm sure he likes LEGO blocks. I remember seeing some in his room. No idea about the Pokemon, I'm afraid. He likes... Well, he likes pizza, that much I know. Not sure what else."

"But, _Daddy!_ Does he like cheesecake? I mean, I will share, but..."

"You cheesecake fiend, you," he tickled her a bit and she howled with happiness. "I suppose it will be better if it turns out Peter actually prefers apple pie then."

"Apple pie is _gross_."

"You are the only person who thinks that," Happy grumbled. "But that's fine, more for us."

"Where does he go to school? Can he go to my school? Which room is his? Where is all his stuff?"

"Hey, hey..." he sat up, hugging her to his chest. "What is this all about? Why this sudden curiosity about Peter?"

"Because it's _Peter_!"

"She's got you, Tony. You've been telling her stories about the kid for ages now, so you have the results. May I remind you that she owns no less than five Spider-Man plushies, all purchased by you? What did you expect her to do, ignore him?"

He blew a raspberry at Happy, making Morgan squeal in joy.

"We can go upstairs, young lady, and you will write down your questions and I will interrogate Peter when he feels better."

"But... is the blue room going to be Peter's? I have to know...!"

 

####

 

Peter's left hand shook like a leaf as Tony clasped it in his.

The room was darkened significantly, with most of the machines covered and all windows curtained off.

Strange was removing the dressings slowly.

Pepper's own hands, quietly twisting a handkerchief, were - hopefully - the only thing betraying how anxious she felt about the whole process.

She wasn't sure who she was feeling for the most - Peter, as such? Peter, who had not seen anything since the day she had held his dying body in her arms and carried him away from that terrible place, only to see his face grow lax as he slipped away... Or Tony? Tony, who had been waiting five long years to get the boy back and had to wait months more now, to finally bring him, not only back to the land of the living, but actually _home_. Home, as in, their home.

Which was where Peter belonged and where he would be staying, if Tony had anything to say. And he would say anything that would be needed. Expressively, if required. And repeat it. And she would support him, wholeheartedly.

"Eyedrops. It will be cold, I'm afraid."

Stephen Strange was one of the most astonishing people Pepper had met and she had met quite a few, indeed, both in her official line of work as the CEO of Stark Industries and as the least visible member of the Avengers. Ancient Norse gods, human-made monsters, murderous aliens - all of it paled when the wizard took the stage. The dychotomy of the man was fascinating - suits and wizard fighting robes; science of his medical background and the magic of his, as he called it, second specialisation; utter lack of patience towards all adults (starting with Tony) and constant, unwavering _care_ for Peter.

"He feels guilty for Titan," Tony had told her one day when she mentioned the wizard's watchfulness when it came to their favourite little spider. "Just like everyone else in this stupid group, he is powered by the overwhelming feeling of having been responsible for fucking up major time."

"But it wasn't _his_ fault that Peter joined the two of you..."

"No, _that_ was all on me. Strange, however, feels responsible for the way the Snap went, as such. He said something about the presence of people on Titan affecting the result. Me and the blue meanie being left alive as the only ones had some kind of reason behind it, according to him. We were supposed to become isolated. I'm not sure exactly why he thinks it's his personal fault, but anyway he feels responsible for Peter's Dusting."

"And they'd been there, together, when they were snapped back in by Bruce," she paused, thinking. "Maybe something happened then? It was what, half an hour before they appeared?"

"Seventeen minutes," he corrected. "Quite enough time for something to go bad in a very spectacular way."

Whatever it was, here they were, watching the abrasive, mysterious and manipulative wizard personally apply saline drops to the Spider-Man's - Peter's - eyes.

"Now, I'm using the Cloak to cut off all light, so this will be by touch, but you can open your eyes. Blink. Very good. Blink again. Don't worry, this is a perfectly healthy reflex. One more drop... Blink a few times and tell me if you feel any dryness."

"No, it's fine now," Peter's voice was tired.

Minutes crawled by as the drops were applied again, salves patted into the skin abraded by the constant touch of bandage (or, lately, a velcro-fastened strap) and finally, slowly, Peter was allowed to rest again on the raised pillows of his bed.

Still, he was keeping his eyes tightly shut.

"Peter," Strange tapped his shoulder. "You have to open them at some point. Come on. Crack them open. Slowly. It's dark here."

"No, it's not," the tired patient protested. "I can feel the light through my eyelids...!"

"Stark, hit the total blackout button," came a short order from the wizard.

Usually her husband tended to argue with Stephen every step of the way. Usually, but not when it came to Peter. Stephen Strange was a professional, both magically and medically, and if he declared something was needed to aid Peter's treatment and/or recovery, Tony Stark obediently took note of it and Just Did It.

Pepper shook her head quietly as her husband tapped the screen of the remote, putting the room in complete darkness.

"We can't make it any darker than that, Peter," he said, shuffling back towards the bed. "Maybe you can try now?"

The boy sighed.

"Okay. Just... let me..."

Nothing happened.

Some more nothing happened.

"Oh, hi, Mr Stark," said the shaky, young voice. "Hi, Miss Potts. Doctor Stephen. And..."

"I'm Shuri," the young inventor moved in the pitch darkness.

"Oh. Shuri, h-hi."

"So, you can see us?"

"Yeah, g-good contours and enough details for me to work everything out. Well, most of it. Kinda."

"I will add a single source of light, Peter. Tell me when you see it."

A blue, pinhead-sized spot of light appeared, illuminating Stephen's fingers eerily.

Peter groaned and turned away.

Hiding his face in Tony's black jacket.

She looked questioningly at Strange, who was watching his own hand with painful grimace.

"Not good," he said morosely. "Needs further testing. I thought the nerve was rebuilt to the same state... But then the brain structures might have been affected in some manner we hadn't identified yet. OK. Light's out, Peter," he said, killing the tiny spark with his fingers.

There was a sound of delicate patting.

"You can let go, kid," her husband said softly. "It's dark again. We have to think about it..."

"But, Mr Stark, if I can't see...?"

"To the contrary, Pete," Strange sighed. "You can see too much. Your cones and rods seem to be working at an unfortunately high level. I'll have to consult with someone specialising in the eye neurology specifically to plot our next steps."

"Okay," Peter sighed, moving back to the pillows, aided by Tony. There was a note of defeat on his voice and Pepper firmly smothered the urge to sob that overcame her suddenly. Making it even worse for Peter was _not_ what she wanted to add to that rather miserable evening.

"I'll see what we can do," she felt Tony pat Peter's hand consolingly. "Now we'll go home and let you rest, or you will have an ugly headache tomorrow."

"But, Mr Stark...!"

"Peter, what did you promise me, when it comes to your self-care?"

The boy sighed.

"That I will try to get better and not do stupid things that could endanger my recovery."

"That's exactly what I meant. You have a full blackout in the room now, you can sleep without that nasty headband and we'll pick this topic up again tomorrow. Friday, make sure to warn Peter if there is any source of light on by accident by the time he wakes up."

"Thank you, Mr Stark," came a soft whisper.

"Thank me only when we find the solution, kiddo. I'll work on it tonight, no worries," she felt him stand up next to her.

"Mr Stark?" the boy's voice was quavering. "I don't want to be presumptious... or things, but doesn't that self-care thing apply also to other employees of the company?"

A beat of silence.

Her husband took a deep breath.

"Y-yeah, I suppose you are right..."

"So _I_ suppose you should not be working on anything today. It's half past nine pm already, after all."

Another beat of silence, as the adults around the bed processed what the youngest person in the room had just pulled over on his leader and mentor.

"You little...!"

"What he means, Peter, is that we are in complete agreement," she hurried to blindly grab the boy's hand. "And I will make sure he does, in fact, stay far away from the lab today."

"I'm not promising anything about tomorrow, though," Tony grumbled from somewhere above her head.

Peter's fingers tightened around hers, just minutely.

She answered with a small squeeze of her own.

 

####

 

After a week, the progress was next to nil but the emotions were ramped up significantly. On all sides.

She found herself serving as a mediator of sorts, between the two people she thought, until now, practically inseparable. Both well-meaning, both definitely loving the other, both so self-sacrificing she wanted to either hit them or cry over them equally.

"You have to let him do something for you, or he will spend the day fretting and feeling useless. Special, protective glasses are right up his valley."

"But he is spending so much time on the stupid glasses, like... I mean, maybe doctor Stephen will find something else?"

"Stephen may find something, or Shuri may, or even Hank Pym, if we ask nicely — he will do it just to spite Tony, if not for any better reason — but Tony..." she looked away from the boy stretched on the high-tech bed, from the monitoring machinery collected around his head, from the way the EEG electrodes attached to his skin gleamed in the lowered light, the mask over Peter's eyes, all of these things that were screaming at her that no, despite all the effort and everything they had done, after four months of coma and over a month of active treatment, Peter was still not going anywhere. The Tower, Queens, or the Avengers compound, he would be moving to neither of these places any time soon.

"Mrs Stark...?"

She glanced at him, trying to remember what she was talking about.

"What about Mr Stark? I mean, you said that others may find something, but?" he reached out, his hand again flat on the soft bedding, in a gesture she had learnt to recognise as a sign of his (maybe unconscious, maybe just aiming at unobtrusive) search for touch. Since what had been normal for him before - eye contact, body language, facial expressions - was not available, he was reduced to touching as a means of conveying additional emotional layer.

Pepper wasn't one to deny him that simple comfort.

Cautiously, she caught his wrist and waited until his fingers tentatively closed around hers.

_Trust._

"Tony needs to be doing things," she said finally. "He needs to keep working and he needs to stay focused and, basically, when you tell him to stop, he can't understand it. He doesn't know _how_ to stop."

"But he should be taking care of other stuff - doing things, I mean, other things, and he is trying so hard and he should not..."

His fingers tensed around her wrist.

"He should not be worrying about me," he whispered finally. "I'm not important. There are things happening everywhere - nobody here tells me things, but Friday gives me all the news. This is what he should be working on. The water crisis. The way everything outside is basically going to hell," he turned to her, reaching blindly with his still less-than-perfectly precise right hand. "He can't be just ignoring everything he can do in order to fiddle with my stupid glasses!"

She caught the other hand and pulled him up, up, and closer, into a slightly unbalanced embrace.

"He can and he will, I'm afraid, Peter," she patted the thin back, the protruding bones and tight muscles. "Last time you were the reason he actually invented the time travel stabilisation. Do you think there is anyone that can tell him to stop fiddling with your glasses and just work on something else?"

He drew a long breath.

"You?"

"No way in hell. I will not, ever, in my life, tell Tony not to work on a project he had set his heart on."

He paused, surprised, but nodded.

"Me?"

"You can try," she said seriously. "And it may even work. But you... you have to consider what it will be telling him."

Another pause. Peter sighed.

"Mnotsure," he murmured.

"When we told you to stop working on the new design ideas, because you were hurting yourself, how did it make you feel?"

He shrugged, head dipping lower, the boy curling up in her embrace.

"Useless," he breathed. "Afraid. Unnecessary."

She licked her lips and hugged him even tighter.

"Unwanted?" she asked finally. "Hopeless?"

The confirmation nod was short and shivery.

"So how do you think Tony would feel if you told him you don't want him to work on your sunglasses?"

A heartfelt 'shit' escaped him.

"Well, he wouldn't probably use this word exactly..." she joked feebly. "But that is the general idea, yes."

"But—but he can't only be doing this...!" the boy sobbed quietly. "I mean, there are things! Happening, I mean, everywhere...!"

"And Iron Legion is being dispatched to deal with many of them," she explained, stroking his head carefully, trying to avoid the electrodes. "And so are various other resources that Stark Industries can offer."

"But _Iron Man_ himself is staying home and working on a pair of glasses for a kid from Queens who..."

"Who is Iron Man's very own favourite intern. Junior employee. Assistant. Student. Stop underestimating your importance, Peter. You are very important to him. To all of us. You are part of the team and he is the main mechanic and designer for the team. So there. The glasses, or some other solution, may become a vital aspect of your life, just like Rhodey's leg braces. We have to prepare for that."

She felt the spasmodic, shallow breaths he was taking, but since none of the machines marked any values outside of the tolerable range, she simply sat there, hugging him in silence.

 

####

 

"I have something."

She looked up from where Morgan was filling in her writing exercise book with carefully produced, very wonky a's.

"What do you mean?"

He shook his head and sat there, moving something carefully in the simulation.

"See here? This is the structure of the Kree face shield. Nearly impenetrable, holds oxygen in, guards against most of cosmic radiation sources and allows user to dive into the atmosphere in a free fall. Better than any welding mask."

"How much of it do you have then?" she stood up and walked all around the large cloud of particles, trying to understand all these features.

"A tiny strip. Enough to analyse it, but not enough to make actual practical use of it."

"So, what are you planning to do...?"

"A combination of Stark Tech, reverse-engineering that material from Danvers and a tiny bit of Vibranium. This actually seems like something that may have commercial potential, if we change from Vibranium to a less expensive metal, too, but I want my kid to have it done in Vibranium. Because he..." Tony pulled up another schematic, "deserves it."

"Basically, a copy of your shades," she nodded towards the blueprint.

"But with side covers," he pointed out. "And a top and bottom cover that will conform to Peter's face. As light as normal glasses, as protective as lab goggles."

"When can you have them ready?"

He smiled and marked something at the bottom of his display.

"Sent to prototyping, together with Peter's head measurements. Make one copy and we'll see how well..." he froze. "I'm an idiot. I'm an utter and complete brainless zombie."

"Daddy?" Morgan stretched a bit, looking at him anxiously.

"No worries, pumpkin. Daddy just had a bit of inspiration hit his brain. Give me a second... yeah, good, didn't go to printing yet. So, so, so obvious...!"

"Tony...?"

"Peter's idea," he smiled at her widely. "He used a fabric of his own design for his suit. Most of it I've replaced by the nanites..." he swallowed and looked aside for a breath or two, "but the core ideas are his and I kept his solutions to everything, so that he could be as comfortable in it as he was in his homemade spandex. Including the eyes. I tried to look through them once and I could barely see anything. He said that when he is in the field - in his fighting mode, more or less - his senses are much sharper, so he needs these eyepieces to filter a lot— Shhhugar!"

He dropped the StarkPad on the table and leaned forward, hiding his face in his hands.

"Friday, call to Peter Parker," he demanded breathlessly and they waited, Morgan included, for a few seconds.

"Mr Stark?" the answer was tired but lucid, thankfully.

"Peter... I can be there in twenty minutes..." he glanced at his watch, "fifteen, if you need me to, but please tell me, is it possible that you are stressed enough to put your body constantly in the fighting mode?"

There was a pause that dragged on forever.

"I..." Peter's voice kind of broke. "I might be, sir. I might be. But... I don't know..." he sounded so terribly young and confused, Pepper’s heart constricted painfully.

"Friday, transfer call to my link," Tony said quickly. "I'll be there as soon as I can, Peter. Don't disconnect. Talk to me, Pete...!"

She watched as he called the armour on, stepping into the covered balcony just outside their apartment.

"What is wrong with Peter?" Morgan asked, her chin trembling just a bit. "Will Daddy make him better?"

She gathered their little girl into a tight hug.

"Peter got hurt some time ago and got so scared he just doesn't know how not to be scared anymore," she explained into the little ear. "Daddy will fly over to him and try to talk him through this. Maybe he will feel better after that."

Hopefully.

Yeah.

"Friday, what about the glasses?"

"Mr Stark has just submitted a corrected design to the prototyping team. Now the structure of the lenses material contains a layer used in the Spider-Man's suit mask."

"Why does Daddy need new glasses?"

"Peter needs them, because his eyes are very sensitive now. He has to have a mask on them all the time, because even the slightest amount of light makes them hurt really a lot. And Daddy is making them for Peter because they need to be very special."

"Because Peter is very special?"

She tugged her little girl closer and hid her face in the slightly messy hair, thinking about a boy, sitting alone in the dark room, helpless against the devastation his sacrifice had brought on his body.

"Yes, kitten. Because Peter is very special."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter. A lot of Peter.  
> And some Tony.  
> Also, Avengers gossip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't there when I last outlined the story. It was born out of an attempt to make the chronology less jumpy and jumbled. It's still very much a flashback-y piece, but much less so than it had been 2 days ago.  
> Chapter count up to 11.  
> I will HOPEFULLY be able to post next one soon. As soon as the editor part of my soul agrees to let go of this mess of a text or the writer side agrees to rewrite it properly.

There was something encouraging in the way Mr Stark talked to him. With him. It felt... Peter felt like a proper grownup. Well, most of the time. Some. Often enough. Unless he allowed himself to remember the more idiotic things he did in the recent weeks, of course.

As most of the visits went, they were waiting for another round of meds to arrive and Peter was exercising his fingers — bending them one by one, straightening again, making a fist — while Mr Stark kept a running commentary about current events. Not from around the world, however, these Peter got from Friday — this, what Mr Stark was telling him right now, trying to distract him from the unpleasantness of yet another skin graft, was pure Avengers gossip. Delivered by the master of snark and quippy nicknames himself.

"And lately, it's been Wanda and Strange, all the time. They can barely stand each other's presence," his mentor grumbled. "How are they going to ever learn to cooperate, when every meeting ends up in a screaming match or worse, I don't know. Someone has to make this kindergarten work and it's not going to be _me_."

"Then who?" Peter asked, fuzzily bemused. "I mean... someone has to, right? They can't go on... like this? And I mean, why does doctor Stephen argue with her?"

"Because he does not, quote, proscribe to the belief that there is anything of value to be gained by listening to an amateur trying to school him in his job, end quote."

He frowned.

"And that means?"

"That our Sorcerer Supreme is not going to listen to some small-town witch with delusions of grandeur - again, a quote - and that our local occult practitioner is not going to talk to the stuck-up stick-in-the-mud again, because why bother. Another quote. Then she started muttering in Russian and that always makes me uneasy."

Peter smothered a smile.

"And what did she want to teach him about?"

Mr Stark looked up from over his Stark Pad and just rolled his eyes.

"Magic. I mean, I'm not even trying to get into details. She _is_ powered by the Mind Stone and he uses Time Stone, so I thought they would be at least more or less in the same book, if the same page is not on the table, but it seems their, well, brands of magic are utterly incompatible and each approaches the ideas of power manipulation from a completely different angle. Whatever. Not going to meddle with them."

"Which of them is subtle and which would be prone to anger...?" Peter managed a weak joke, getting a small laugh out of Mr Stark.

Everything, in general, had been weak in the weeks he had spent in Shuri's "hospital wing". First, waking up to total darkness, hearing the nearly damning diagnosis of large-scale nerve damage, about the spinal injury, about the optic nerve... and then slow, slow recuperation... Until the moment like this very one, like now, when, if he didn't know better, if he didn't know what will come later, he could have said he was, actually, quite fine. Acceptably well.

But he wasn't. Not at all.

It wasn't helping that his surroundings and the obvious amount of money going into the machinery dedicated to his wellbeing were, to say it delicately, daunting. For a kid like him, a scholarship student in an acceptably reasonable high school, a— well, not-really-a-superhero (unlike other superheroes, he didn't have a seemingly unlimited budget, just a really, really kind benefactor looking after him), well, for such a kid, being housed in a foreign embassy was by itself something quite out of the everyday. To add to it the array of monitors, support and all these weird little instruments that both Shuri and doctor Stephen had used, and the procedures he was undergoing...

He didn't want to imagine the bill for this all.

It made him _antsy_ and left him with a strong yearning for at least a modicum of normality. A public hospital would be a good start. Maybe.

He knew quite well that there were people out there looking for him and that it wasn't _safe_ in a normal hospital — and that was not only _not safe_ for him, but for doctor Stephen, for Mr Stark and for Shuri. Well, and it would have been hard to be in any normal hospital and receive this kind of treatment, starting from Shuri's neural repair lasers, to doctor Stephen's magical healing, to the supercharged IV that delivered a triple normal dose of sugars and microelements his body needed.

And it would have been very much unsafe for Mr Stark to visit him, judging from the kinds of news Friday had been reading to him.

He looked longingly at the Stark Pad his mentor was holding, but then his eyes dropped to his own, still heavily wrapped hands and he sighed, easing down on the pillows.

"Hey, Peter... you OK? This last site, it doesn't hurt anymore, right?"

He shrugged non-committally.

"Not really," he mumbled a small lie. "It's just, I don't have a lot to do. And it's hard to do the research with Friday when I can't see, you know, the schematics. And anyway I didn't want to disturb you, and it usually involves a lot of talking and Fri repeating big pieces to me, because I don't really work all that well without any visual help—"

A mumbled 'shit' from his side and a flurry of motion surprised him.

And so did the double-sized Stark Pad dropped into his lap.

"New model, not yet on the market," Mr Stark explained hastily. "I was supposed to give it to you, but what with the arguments and living space arrangements and with Stephen clashing with Wanda and then with Shuri, I kind of forgot I had it..."

They both grimaced.

Doctor Stephen had indeed argued with Shuri about the speed at which Peter's treatments were applied. He was very much for slowing down and making the changes more gradually, while Shuri was pressing for as many grafts, nerve growths and whatever-elses as was physically possible.

Sometimes Peter sided with her, as he wanted this whole thing to be Just Simply Done. It was emotionally exhausting to stay in bed, away from home and May and his friends. He wanted to be out, to be doing things. To see with his own eyes that they were all, in fact, alive and well - which he couldn't do right now, because, well, security.

On the other hand, doctor Stephen's arguments for taking it slow had some merit. His approach meant less pain at the same time, fewer places on Peter's body that needed dressings, less stress on his body.

And, he shamefully had to admit, it meant more time spent with Mr Stark, who seemed to be there after each subsequent treatment, only occasionally replaced by his wife.

When he thought of this, it was strange, that weird combined guardianship. Between doctor Stephen and the adults who felt responsible for his wellbeing, he found himself— taken care of to the degree he hadn't experienced even when Uncle Ben was still alive. It felt, well, luxurious.

May came by in the mornings, before her afternoon shifts, and sat with him, talking quietly about things that were happening in the neighbourhood and in the city, very carefully omitting any kind of sensational news that might "disturb" him.

Mr Stark visited, on average, two out of every three days — calling every time he had to be somewhere else — and gave him a background of a variety of the Avengers' activities — a complete and quite extensive lowdown on everything that was happening both in the Tower and at the Compound. The missions. The training. The arguments, the gossip and the practical jokes. It made Peter feel at the same time included - by Mr Stark, who obviously shared all this in the spirit of 'you should know what these dumbasses are doing' - and isolated, being unable to join said dumbasses any time soon.

Mrs Stark — who occasionally reminded him to call her 'Pepper' (he was still resisting) — talked to him about books. Of all things, Pepper Potts-Stark turned out to be a closeted fan of the good, old, traditional hard fantasy of all kinds, from Tolkien up. She was the one who added her collection of audiobooks to Friday's "family" library section, allowing Peter to listen to both the classics and the new things, written in the time Between.

And now, oh, now he would have access to _everything_. He wouldn't need Friday to repeat things to him over and over - he would see them and _remember_ properly. That would be glorious...!

He moved to adjust the angle of the screen, but the pad started slipping and his bandaged hands were quite useless in keeping it where it was supposed to be. He tried not to draw any more attention to it, but apparently had made some kind of noise of distress, as immediately his back was being supported and brought up to a comfortable angle, the pad was secured in his lap with the help of a small lunch tray and there was an additional pillow supporting his head.

Mr Stark patted his shoulder as he finished by pulling the cover higher up and tucking it around Peter's torso. Seriously. It had the potential to become very, very annoying... But... Was it so bad that he wanted more of this? Wished for someone to take care of him like that? Like May used to do when he was a little kid and got sick every fall — sitting with him, reading to him, holding him when his temperature went high and stayed there. He didn't want to be _sick_ as such, but somehow being taken care of held an enormous appeal in his eyes.

But it wasn't something he could admit, was it?

Nope. Not to his mentor, not to his aunt and not to the CEO of the company that was apparently counting him as one of their employees.

And most definitely not to a wizard.

Because. Let's be serious.

Nope.

"Friday, turn the pad on," Mr Stark said softly. "And tie the access to Peter's voice pattern."

"Yes, boss. Done," the AI answered - probably in both links they were wearing, "Peter, do you want to set up some basic commands that you could use as long as your hands are wrapped?"

"Hm... A nod to scroll down, up for up and clicking links on voice command?"

"There is also a bit of interface that interprets eye movements. You can set it up so that you only have to look at the needed link and blink," his mentor suggested. "This system is being prepared for various kinds of... communication problems. For you and some percentage of people, it's just a case of temporary discomfort, but there is a huge group of accident victims and folks after serious illnesses who need this kind of interface on daily basis, probably for the rest of their lives."

"Oh, right," Peter grimaced.

Oh, right, indeed.

He wasn't going to go into any details though. He wasn't going to suddenly share with his mentor all these nights when he woke up from dreams of being completely immobilised, weeks when, upon awakening, he checked his arms and legs - shaky, but there, uncertain, but still feeling - and touched each finger in an attempt at controlling the way his brain was screaming to him that he had lost them, _lost them_ , lost the feeling, lost, lost, lost...

"Pete? Pete, kid, where did you go?"

He shook himself off and tried to smile at Mr Stark, but it must have come across more as 'sickly' than as 'reassuring' because he found himself under the close scrutiny of his mentor.

"What's wrong, kiddo?"

Peter took a shuddering breath and relaxed into the pillows slightly.

"Just, bad dreams. I remembered something."

"Mhm. You know you can tell me if this becomes too much, right? I can tell both Stephen and Shuri to back off and give you longer breaks between treatments, so you can relax and... you know. Convince your body you can be off your guard more often than not."

Oh, yeah. That.

Embarrassing.

Because Mr Stark had been correct.

Precisely right on the bloody dot.

He had guessed - intuited, deduced - that Peter had been sustaining his most watchful and stressed mode of operation every second since he awoke from his coma. Sheer stress and uncertainty of the situation had not allowed the spidey-senses to calm down, even in his sleep. Every stimulus made them go into overdrive, his ears catching even the drip of the leaky faucet in the bathroom a floor above the hospital enclosure. Not to mention the general activity of way too many people in a limited space. Rationally, he knew that there were much fewer people in the Embassy than in his building in Queens, but his feelings had been veritably screaming, warning him of continued danger, danger from everywhere around him...!

Every time one of his sensors calmed down, another picked up the baton - smell of hospital disinfectant attacked him when everything quieted at nighttime, then, once the air exchange system kicked in and removed the chemical odour, his brain served him with an attack of restless legs, which was rather annoying, considering he could barely _move_ these legs.

But the worst part? He hadn't known what was wrong. Why everyone seemed to stink or shout or pinch him. Why every breeze from the window made him shiver down to his bones. Why even the little hairs on his hands _hurt_ every time they raised.

Only when Mr Stark called and plainly asked him about the chances of him running himself ragged by sustaining the fighting mode for so long, he started noticing things. Things that should not have happened, had he "powered down" the spider. At least, thankfully, he hadn't started to stick to anything - but on the other hand, this would have been a plain hint at what was going on with him...!

But, when he tried to let go and relax, he found out he couldn't.

And then Mr Stark came and talked him down.

That had been humiliating.

Like a toddler who screams his throat raw because he doesn't want to go to daycare, Peter had to be calmed down, from - what he saw now - a shivering, permanently alert wreck, into something resembling normal state.

Normal state included seeing in normal light without feeling as if someone was stabbing his brain with knitting needles. As doctor Stephen explained it, the enhanced state was inducing additional activity on the side of his rod cells, and since his change, the density of said rods on his retina was apparently seven times the standard human norm. This made for very good night vision and potentially killing headaches if he didn't learn to cover his eyes in time. Or to power the whole thing down.

Mr Stark had held him, breathed with him, talked him through several attempts at getting himself under control and in general _been there_ , with him, for long hours, until that primitive, protective part of Peter's brain caught on to the fact that he was actually _safe_ , dammit, and laid off flooding his system with adrenaline. It was such a relief when it stopped that it was nearly painful in itself.

And then, the next day, he was given was the best gift anyone had ever gotten him. He could have hugged Mr Stark - if not for the fact that he was stuck in bed with an IV in each arm and the man was helping him to put on the glasses correctly. And they were a blessing. A simple application of his own solution for filtering the light, copied from his suit, combined with the shielding provided by Captain Danvers and what seemed to be a durable polymer of latest generation gave him a perfectly working pair of shades - with side blocks and adjustable strap, much more comfortable than the headband and much more useful.

And now he had a pad - a _Stark Pad!_ \- and his half-dim room and his mentor by his side and a project to work on.

"Friday, can you please bring up the file on photovoltaics?" he asked quietly. "And attach all the notes I added, even the ones made when I was kind of sleepy."

"It's coming up, Peter. The notes are attached at the chronological points and by keywords."

He looked up at Mr Stark, who was watching him with a small frown.

"Um. I had Friday read my notes back to me and she recorded all the remarks I made on rereading. It's mostly small edits, but sometimes I had a new idea sparking kind of during the re-read..." he trailed off, watching his mentor's crestfallen face. "What?"

"It's just that..." the man sighed. "I'm sorry, Peter. I should have thought about the pad earlier. But it's just been..."

"Too many things at once, I know. I usually forgot about this too, since I've gotten so used to this way of working when I was still, you know. And anyway, with my hands being still out of commission, I'll have to dictate any corrections I have. It will be faster than the on-screen keyboard and blinking. This will be OK for coding."

"You are planning to code by… blinking?"

Peter tried to call a semi-optimistic smile to his lips.

"It’s still better than NOT coding at all. At least now I will have a written language reference to check against. Python is interesting and I have to catch up with five years of the language development, so…"

Mr Stark was looking at him with something... something. Biting his lip.

"OK. Tell me about these photovoltaics."

There was a bit of a wobble in that voice.

"Well, since doctor Stephen told me about the number of rods on my retina, I started thinking, what about using this for solar power..."

Mr Stark's pad had gone dark as he leaned in closer to have a look.

"Go on, kiddo. Tell me how you'd do this."

"So I was thinking about this cell structure..."


	7. Chapter 7

"The Tower...?" he asked incredulously.

"The Tower."

"As in... the Stark Tower?"

"Yes. Well, not the one in the middle of the city, Tony has apparently sold that one when we were all gone, and now they have a new facility just outside of the suburbs. It was supposed to be away from everything, but there are some other tech companies that had, as Pepper says, attached themselves to the big fish and migrated away from the city. The financial results... vary. SI is the best, the rest is more or less surviving. Still, it means something like a tech campus had grown independently from the city itself, but still not as far away as, say, the Avengers compound. Which, I have to tell you, has been completely _wrecked_..."

May trailed off, playing with the end of her scarf.

"And I'll be there, too," she said finally. "Not immediately, but Pepper offered me a job. Well. She told me about it, but I'm pretty sure it was Tony's idea."

He opened his mouth and closed it with a snap.

"Seriously?"

She shrugged.

"The hospital didn't suddenly become an employee-friendly place despite the fact that they don't have enough nurses and orderlies to go around, and they reduced my base hours last week."

Peter frowned, trying to work out how it was supposed to help anyone.

"What...? What does this even mean?"

"Since the Snaps, many things have changed," she looked away. "But not healthcare being a business. They got the government to pass new laws regarding workplace rules and now they are using them. They can legally tell me that my base is even four hours, but ask me to stay twice that without paying... And basically that's what they used to do before, but now it seems a nurse or a doctor can't legally say 'no' if they are ordered to stay."

Peter's head throbbed.

"Like... Like slavery?"

May's face tensed for a moment.

"Yeah. Almost like."

"And Pepper...?"

"Pepper says she needs someone who is at the same time a medical professional, not one of the Avengers and prepared not to take anyone's shit."

"That sounds... reasonable."

"But behind it is Tony thinking I should not be working for pennies in a semi-public institution. I know his opinion about my boss, too. So, well... And Pepper has sent me the contract. With every hour on the job paid and so on. Special emergencies, times off, overtime, being on call."

He straightened.

"So... are you taking this?"

"Since it's the best proposition I got in the last six months? Hell yes. I've already handed in my resignation. The HR woman who took it was trying to intimidate me into staying... Well, nevermind. Two more weeks at my current place and then I move to the compound, to help set up the new medical wing."

 

####

 

He sat in the high-tech wheelchair a little gingerly, but his skeletal muscles were holding up OK, so his position was stable. In fact, if doctor Stephen was to be believed the only thing between him and self-sufficient walking was a humongous amount of mind-numbingly boring gym hours and PT sessions. All of which he would be able to attend in the Tower.

_In. The. Stark. Tower._

He would be staying over at the Tower. For several _months_!

That was better than vacation...!

Cautiously, making sure his glasses were in place, he looked up from his spot by the lifts, where Happy had left him in order to park the car in one of the "Family" spots. And sighed.

It was something of a challenging prospect, when he gave it more thought.

"Worried already, Spiderling?"

Had he been standing, he would have most probably jumped, but as it was, his hand jerked on the controls, sending the chair into an unexpected spin. Mr Stark caught him easily and immobilised the chair with a flick of the attendant's steering stick.

"Mr S-Stark," he smiled weakly, probably looking like an idiot who just can't even use a wheelchair properly.

"Hi, kid," a heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder and squeezed it lightly. "Happy called me saying that you were down here, and I came to give you a tour, so... ready?"

"A tour, sir?"

That was definitely a pat. A solid, body-contact pat on his shoulder.

He should not be luxuriating in it _that_ much, should he?

But it felt like home. It felt like a place where he was wanted. It felt like a place _he_ wanted to be. Definitely like home.

He really hoped he'd be getting some proper rest here, because the Wakandan Embassy, for all its luxuries - and Shuri's mentally stimulating company - was not what he felt very comfortable with. The Tower meant Mr Stark, Miss Potts — well, Mrs Stark — Happy, May from time to time, Friday in every room and maybe, finally, a regular computer...! The Stark Pad he had been using was very nice and with his level of access he could browse the S.I. patent library for interesting ideas, but he needed to touch a real keyboard soon. Very soon.

One of the reasons was that his fingers still weren't that good with the onscreen keyboard and, at the same time, dictation did not solve all of his problems. Notes, yes. Ideas, yes. Murmured asides, yes. Code... no. Even the point-and-blink interface was too slow for sustained usage.

Still, it was better. He was better.

Everything was much, much better now.

Basically, anything would have been better than the shaking, nerve-riddled, blind state he had been in bare two months before, when he awoke from the coma under the watchful eye of doctor Stephen.

Ever since the the most pressing issue of his eyes working triple time was resolved and they all could chill a bit (especially Mr Stark and doctor Stephen, who had both seemed to be as tense as watch springs), Peter was finally able to actively devour the resources offered him by Friday, but, most definitely, what he really needed was a setup with a reasonably big screen and a comfortable chair. And there was a distinct probability that Mr Stark would have something adequate. Hopefully he'd be able to use it.

"A tour, kid. You've only known the old building, and even then you hadn't seen a lot of it. This... This is new. All new. You OK driving on your own, or would you rather have me push?"

He looked down at his slightly shaking hands and then up, biting his lip.

"I wouldn't want to run into anything," he admitted finally. "I mean, I can try steering it, but I hadn't had a... a chance to get a hang of it yet."

"I thought the chair was supposed to be delivered yesterday," Mr Stark took the handles and turned them towards the lift door. "Wanted to give you time to familiarise yourself with the controls at least... Never mind that, you can do it in the main lab. The floor is already set for the bots to test their... Peter?"

He just shook his head, trying to rein in the sudden raging _anger_ mixed in rather equal amounts with sheer helplessness. That resulted in tears.

Again.

_Shit._

And it wasn't like he could just tell Mr Stark what was wrong, now could he. The man had singlehandedly saved them all, worked out the tech to pull them from the abyss, worked out the bloody _time travel_ itself...! And what does he get in return? An emotionally unstable teenager who can't keep his shit together for a few minutes because he is stuck in a wheelchair for two more months and he _doesn't fucking like it_.

"Peter, look at me. We're in the flat now. It's okay. Out of the lift. If you want to stretch out—"

And now there came the sobbing and snot. _Shit shit shit, Parker, get a fucking grip! Be a man! Last thing Mr Stark needs now is your whiny ass taking any more of his time..._

Somehow accepting Miss Potts' - Mrs Stark's - compassion was easier. He felt allowed to come apart in her presence. Receiving the same from Mr Stark felt wrong. Incorrect. He wasn't supposed to be showing weakness in front of his mentor. Commander. Leader.

"Shit," Mr Stark's voice came from somewhere near. "Friday, all lights, to ten percent. Now, Peter, glasses are coming off," he warned and the next thing Peter felt was the snap being undone and the glasses easing off from his face.

He squeezed his eyes shut immediately, but...

"It's OK," a hand on the back of his neck. "It was too much. Strange warned me you might have..."

"I'm fine," he managed to utter, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter. "I'm sorry. I don't know what happened. I just..." he paused and patted the pocket where doctor Stephen had put his saline drops. Although how he was supposed to apply them now that he was afraid to open his eyes...

"Hey, hey, Peter," Mr Stark sat down heavily on the sofa next to the wheelchair. "This is a generally, all-around shitty situation. You are allowed not to be happy. While I miss my chatty little sidekick, I don't expect you to be all chipper and joyous."

"I'm not..." he took a deep breath. "That's not what I wanted to do. I mean, to say. To..." his hands shook a bit as he twisted the drops bottle open.

"Friday, five percent," came an immediate order. "You can open your eyes now, Pete. It's okay."

_It's okay. It's okay._

He breathed slowly in, out, in.

A warm hand on the back of his neck.

Cracked one eye open slowly.

Oh. Indeed, dark enough.

Thankfully.

He quickly applied the drops and blinked to spread them.

"Boss, Mrs Stark is on her way. Twenty minutes out," Friday chimed softly, as if adjusting her volume to the dimmed lights.

And there was something in the way Mr Stark straightened. Something that Peter had never seen before. Something...

"Friday, bring the lights up just to ten percent, slowly."

Peter grimaced, but kept blinking and breathing in the calming pattern Doctor Stephen had shown him. These exercises, and the glasses, helped immensely in managing his reactions still at the hospital and they were the shield and security blanket he needed when dealing with outside world. But now the glasses were off, taken by Mr Stark's hand, and the lights were slowly, gradually brightening. He needed to breathe slowly.

"Peter? You feeling OK?"

"A bit lightheaded," he admitted. He could admit that, couldn't he? Part of that self-care stupid things...!

"Sugar," his mentor murmured and disappeared for a moment, coming back with a glass of vaguely pinkish drink. "A leftover from the days when... well, nevermind. Drink up. Sugars, electrolytes, a dose of proteins."

"Yum," he mumbled, sniffing the glass. It smelled vaguely citrus-y, so he gave it a try.

Dear God that was terrible.

"Bottoms up, kid. You'll thank me later. Your metabolism needs fuel. This pink crap is, according to experts, one of the best things for it."

"What," he gulped another mouthful, trying not to focus on the taste too much. "What's in it? Apart from sugar, salt and proteins...?"

"Powdered fibre, a bunch of vitamins, mix of potassium and magnesium, as they manage the neurotransmitters, selected fractions of olive oil, flax seed and carnitine."

"What kind of sadist mixed this up?" he sipped some more and shivered. "And who agreed to be his lab rat for testing this?"

The grimace on Mr Stark's lips was not a smile, not in any universe.

"Someone who had already been experimented on for long enough," he said softly. "Let's say that I'm pretty sure at least one of these components causes the consumer to express overactive loyalty and readiness for self-sacrifice — but then it wouldn't affect you all that much, would it? You came with these in-built."

"B-but..." he frowned at the pinkish concoction, trying to work out who in the world could Mr Stark be alluding to.

"Rogers left several boxes of this, and it will last forever, since it's freeze dried," Mr Stark snorted quietly. "I think he wouldn't complain if I fed it to the new generation of superheroes..."

It took it Peter a few seconds to process.

He managed not to spray the table with the contents of his mouth.

_That would have been actually really humiliating._

"Captain America used this...?" he asked weakly.

"Yeah, had to drink two daily, three if he couldn't get a decent meal. That muscle mass might have been made in a test tube, but he definitely worked on maintaining it very diligently. And just moving that bulk around required additional resources."

Peter drained the glass and grimaced.

"He was a tougher man than I thought. Drinking this, three times a day? I'd rather go fight some aliens."

"Ah, here's the Peter I know," Mr Stark sat next to him with his own glass, full of something that actually promised to be even worse than what Peter himself had just finished. "Leafy greens smoothie. Seems a man of my advanced years has to change his diet if he wants to stay in flying condition. Or, well..." he looked towards the window. "Stay on top of all the mess that's happening outside."

"I'm sorry," he said automatically.

"For what? It wasn't you who messed up the world," Mr Stark eyed his glass in disgust. "In fact, I think I distinctly remember you _saving_ it, Pete."

He shrugged.

"Not that it helped much. People are still doing things to each other that are almost as bad as what Thanos would have done."

His host stood up, nervously stretching.

"Thanos would have wiped all life on Earth," he said finally. "That's what he told me. That was what he was snapping for. To remove every living thing from the surface of this planet."

"I— I didn't hear him—" Peter felt a sudden wave of something he could only call second-handed dread. "Oh God. He would have... he would have just, just..."

"Shit."

There was a strong arm around him, helping him up - his legs still shaky like overcooked noodles - and over, to the sofa. And then there was a hug. Yet another out of the recently generously given ones.

"I've got you, kid," Mr Stark said softly. "I've got you. And you killed him. You killed all of them, as if they had never been there. You removed them with one snap of your fingers. You were there, you picked the gauntlet up and it obeyed. You overpowered the complete set of the Infinity Stones, as one of the only two people left living in this universe."

Peter nodded, trying not to fall apart again.

"Mrs Stark asks if there is anything the two of you require that she should potentially pick up before she heads upstairs."

"Just the documents from the fifth floor, Friday."

And there is was again. That watchfulness. That sudden straightness.

"Peter, there is one thing," he started and then paused. "I didn't — we didn't tell you about..."

_It is seriously starting to freak me out._

"You are going to meet your greatest fan in about four minutes."

_That wasn't what I had expected._

_Well, I hadn't really expected anything specific, but if I had to bet on what he had been going towards, it wasn't this._

"What?"

_Great, Parker, that shows everyone how smart you are._

"Well, she grew up hearing tales of your adventures told as bedtime stories," he smiled at Peter, but there was something incredibly vulnerable in that stern, sharp face.

Peter himself could only shake his head in complete and utter non-understanding.

"We'll try to limit her attempts at jumping on you — she is actually rather good about it, once she knows she has to pay attention. And Pepper does wonders with her. I'm usually too afraid I'd break her or... or something. My own parents weren't the best examples on how to actually bring up a kid, so I wasn't sure I'd ever feel qualified..."

A tiny, surprised "oh" escaped Peter at that _dictum_.

"Yeah," his mentor stood up and turned to the window. "Morgan is five. She was born five months after the Decimation. And, I'm afraid I've spent the last four years telling her about each and every adventure we've had together - and some that I had to scan multiple archives for, to make sure I got it absolutely right."

"Afraid?" he asked weakly. "I mean... what does she know? Does she _know_ about me...?"

Tony Stark paused in his progress around the coffee table.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I've slipped a few times and Morgan is smart enough to make an average research scientist look deficient. She connected the dots very easily."

He felt his palms sweating nervously.

"And-and, she..."

"Peter," Mr Stark squeezed his shoulder slightly. "She's five. She sleeps with a Spider Man plushie. She dressed as Spider Man for a preschool dance. She still asks me, from time to time, to 'tell one about Peter'. She knows that she is not allowed to talk to others about you or superheroing. If someone mentions any names - including mine - she says 'ask my Daddy', and we already know it works."

"Okay."

It didn't feel like okay, but there weren't any options.

And, since Mr Stark said it was fine, and Spidey senses were not screeching anything about immediate danger, he could, most probably, relax a tiny bit. Just a tiny bit.

He wouldn't want to relax too much, would he?

"How are you feeling? Any negative reaction to the supersoldier shake?"

The question surprised him out of his reverie.

"Fine," he said with slight surprise. "I... it's fine. I'm not hungry, I'm not shivery, I'm warm. It feels... good."

"Perfect. I'll put the kettle on and start taking out the things for the dinner. Happy will have done some shopping, but..."

Peter's hand wrapped itself around his mentor's wrist almost by its own volition and probably, of the two of them, he was the one more surprised when he asked softly "S-stay? Please?"

The sternness of that tired countenance bled away and morphed into a concerned look.

"Sure. This can wait, no problem."

In a few very effective moves, Peter found himself boosted up into a half-sitting position, with Mr Stark behind him, serving as support and something of a... pillow? A small heap of sofa cushions wedged between Peter and the armrest kept him elevated, putting his head just at the right height for him to... to have said head brought to rest on the cotton-covered, well-muscled shoulder of his mentor.

He allowed himself to melt into that warmth, just a bit.

"Okay like that?" rumbled the question.

"Yeah. That's good."

It was good. It was better than good. It had been ages since he had been in that much of a physical contact with anyone except for May, and he found it to be filling some weird, undefined lack in his soul - one he had never felt until that very moment.

His slightly wet sigh drew Mr Stark's attention, but then the lift chimed and it was too late for anything.

"Tony?"

"We're on the sofa."

"Daddy?"

Oh. So, there she was.

Morgan Stark, age five. A living evidence of the fact that he had, indeed, lost half a decade of his life. A mop of hair, just like her father's - or at least, what he could guess Mr Stark's hair would look like if he had allowed himself to grow it out.

"Come on, Pumpkin. We have a guest."

Peter struggled to sit up, but a firm hand on his shoulder brought him down, back to the cushions. And into the warm, supportive hold.

"Relax, kid. She doesn't bite and you really don't have to do anything special. She loves you already."

His breath caught in his throat at that simple encouragement.

"Daddy? Is that Peter?"

_Oh my. She looks like little Merida. Just swap the brown for red and..._

"Yes, Morgan," Mrs Stark appeared just behind her. "How are you, Peter?"

He tried to find something that would at the same time say how tired he was, how grateful he was, how unexpectedly comforted he was, how...

"I'm fine," he managed.

"He's tired and had only had one meal today, and that was Rogers' pink concoction. It's nutritious as hell, but apparently rather vile."

"Daddy! Bad word!"

"Msorry, princess."

Peter felt a little lightheaded with all of that.

Mr Stark, calmly and matter-of-factly providing physical support and comfort.

Mrs Stark, smiling at them in a rather domestic fashion.

And little Morgan, now looking at him with large, inquisitive eyes.

"Hi," he managed to say. "I'm Peter."

She nodded solemnly and leaned closer, hugging him with sudden ferociousness.

"Hi," her voice was muffled by his sweatshirt. "I was waiting for you."

"But you've never met me before..."

"That's why I was waiting," she frowned at him. "Daddy told me all about you. He said you were taken away by a big bad magical man. Is that why you were hurt?"

"Um."

"Peter was hurt getting rid of the big bad magical man," Mr Stark provided calmly. "He got badly burned all over and doctors had to make sure he would be OK before he could come home."

"Oh," she frowned again. "Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore," he lied quickly. "And they promised that if I exercise properly, I will be walking again soon."

The little inquisitive elf looked at him curiously.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why can't you walk now?"

He opened his mouth, but no sound came, so sudden was the feeling of _hurt_ inside him.

"Peter has been stuck in bed for half a year, Pumpkin, and he had been asleep for over four months. His legs forgot how to work in that time."

She frowned. She apparently frowned a lot, especially if grownups weren't making sense.

"But how can he be Spider Man again if he can't walk?"

Peter winced.

Trust a four-year-old to hit him in the exact soft spot.

"Kitten..." her father said helplessly. "Come on, kid, hop on and let's have a cuddle and we'll talk, ok?"

She was somehow arranged on the other side of the mound of pillows, taking, if Peter could guess correctly, Mr Stark's other shoulder.

"I see you have the children well in hand," Mrs Stark appeared in front of them with some boxes. "Peter, do you have any particular wishes for dinner? I'll see what we can do about getting some actual real food in you and not that disgusting goop Steve was living off."

"Um, I, I'm not very hungry..." he trailed of as she smiled.

"If there is one thing I know about teenagers, it's that they are nearly always hungry. And I have learnt a few things about people with accelerated metabolism," she tapped the glass with the remnants of the pink concoction, "and people recovering from major illnesses and injuries. At least you are not stuck with an IV anymore. Now, everyone fine with something Italian?"

"Just not fish!" the little voice piped up.

"No fish, no fish. But you _will_ eat the salad!"

Well. So this is what it looked like when a superhero settled and went all Dad. Or when a (part-time) superheroine went Mom. Quite... normal.

Mrs Stark was unboxing something in the kitchen and opening the oven, but Peter lost track of what exactly she was doing and started floating away, half-listening to what Mr Stark was talking about with Morgan.

"...It's not nice."

"But it's _true_."

Oh, definitely Mr Stark's very own child.

"But that doesn't mean you have to ask it so..."

"T'was OK," he murmured, leaning into the warmth. "I mean, not OK, but not her fault, right? I mean... she's five..."

He felt the arm holding him tighten slightly.

"Yeah, she is five," the proud father confirmed. "But that doesn't mean my little princess can go around reminding people they had lost the ability to do something, hm...? Even if it's only temporary."

Morgan mumbled something Peter couldn't understand, but in a matter of seconds there was scrambling over the pillows being performed and a squirming, soft, light child landed straight in Peter's lap.

"I'm sorry."

"For what...?" prompted her father.

"For saying that you can't be Spider Man anymore. You can. You just need to start walking again."

"That's... That's okay."

It wasn't, not in particular. But she was just a kid. Barely old enough to understand what it means to be disabled - even Peter, at that very moment, could not envision real disability, as, according to doctor Stephen, he would have recovered from complete spinal injury, given time (and proper alignment of the injured parts). He would, apparently, regrow major damage to his neural system, up to and, in luck, including brain stem death. In short, unless someone cut him up into little pieces and kept them separate until the regen was no longer supported by the energy the piece could produce, he would keep coming back.

"But, yeah, Morgan, if you meet someone who has been hurt and can't really do something they used to — like, like see or walk or, or, whatever, like even if they can't talk clear because they got new braces and are spitting through them with every word — well, you just shouldn't make it a thing to point out. Because they may be sad or angry about it and wouldn't want everyone to remind them."

"Oh," she seemed to be considering it very, very deeply. "Do you want a cuddle?"

He blinked at the unexpected offer.

"Sure. Why not. Just, be careful of my right hand. It's still a bit... OK, yeah, that will work."

She wormed herself under his left shoulder and plastered to his uninjured, left side.

"We have a chain of cuddle now," she announced, having placed herself securely. "Daddy is holding you and you are holding me."

"The question is..." he trailed off, trying to put into words the sudden mathematical concept. "Is the cuddle transitive?"

"Whaat?"

"Well, if we are sitting like this, are you only cuddling with me, or also with your Dad?"

He felt Mr Stark shaking with silent laughter.

"What else could it be?"

"Intransitive. For example, if... Well..." he tried to find the right comparison.

"If Mommy said Peter was wrong and Peter said I was wrong, that doesn't mean Mommy thinks I was wrong."

"Hey!"

"Shush, think about better example, kid."

A sudden sound of the camera shutter brought their attention to Mrs Stark, standing in the middle of the room with her phone aimed at them.

"Lovely," she smiled at them and walked towards the kitchen. "Tony, get the children to the table, please."

 

#

 

Dinner was slightly disorienting — even the kitchen table in the penthouse was more official than what he had back at home, where they ate in front of the TV or huddled at the small table in the kitchen, sometimes eating pizza with their fingers... Well, Morgan definitely helped herself with her fingers.

Peter managed to transfer himself from the wheelchair to the actual table chair by boosting himself on the table - and with minimal support from Mr Stark, too. It felt like an accomplishment.

Which also felt sort of sad, because what kind of an accomplishment was it for someone to just... switch seats?

The choking feeling in his throat was washed down with some juice and he tried to enjoy the meal as much as he could, feeling his focus going fuzzy at times. His hosts were quietly discussing something related to the company — and with Mr Stark _that_ worried about the deals the sales division was doing, Peter really didn't want to ask for details — while Morgan watched him in fascination.

"Daddy said you like LEGOs," she said finally between one bite of her carrot and another.

"M-hm," he swallowed the bit of pasta he was chewing. "I mean, yes. I used to build models with my best friend, Ned. I had..." he shrugged. "Well, less than I wanted, more than I had shelf space for. We bought that Death Star model together... Long time ago."

"Can you build Technic models? Because I have a car that I want to build but Daddy said I could only do this under adult sup—" she focused so much her eyes almost crossed "—supervision."

"Well..." he trailed off. "I'm not sure... I mean, I love Technic. Not that I had many, because they are bl... rather expensive. I remember that there was that one box — each kid on our block wanted it, but nobody could afford it. It was sitting in that toy store on the corner from my flat for, like, ages. A huge, complicated car. And I mean it. It was marked for kids over ten years, so each time someone on the block had their tenth birthday, they were counting on getting their parents to buy them _that box_. Nobody ever got it and the store finally closed anyway. Someone put a bank there or something."

"Stupid," she said around a mouthful of pasta and sauce. "Toy shops are much more fun."

"Totally."

"Which box was that?" Mrs Stark reached out to wipe some sauce that Morgan had managed to deposit on the table.

"Supercar 8880," he answered immediately.

"The skeletal one?" Mr Stark glanced up from over his pad. "Why would anyone want _that_?"

Peter shrugged.

"Some guys were fantasising about maybe one day driving one like that, just with, you know, the full body."

"And you?"

That was a look from over The Shades (even if said Shades were not present). Peter felt his cheeks growing hot.

"Well, it was a nice, big set," he prevaricated and tucked into his pasta. It didn't take him long to notice that his mentor was still watching him. "What?"

"Peter."

"It was! Like, it was the best the shop had on offer. Biggest box. Sleekiest photos. And the highest age range."

He took another bite and carefully avoided everyone's eyes. And Mr Stark's small smirk.

It wasn't very easy.

And he was kind of tired.

"OK, OK—" he pushed the plate away and run his hands over his face. "It was the biggest possible box I've ever seen and I wanted to have it and be able to build the whole blasted thing myself, without anyone's interference. Even Ned's. And I wanted to understand how they can calculate all these fiddly little bits and angles and how the construction is designed and... you know. Understand why a fifteen-hole bar and not thirteen. This kind of stuff."

"Hm," was all that he heard in reply.

_Adults._

"By the way— Have you considered school options, Peter?"

_ADULTS!_

"Give him a few days before you start nagging him, Tony."

"I just wanted to know—!"

"I haven't. Not yet, well, not as _school_ options. I mean— My old school doesn't have proper handrails everywhere it should, so how can I try to go there before I'm fully mobile? I was—" he shook his head. "I was thinking about getting my textbooks for this year from aunt May - if they survived - and, kind of, trying to at least study by myself, what I can, until I'm—" he trailed off, seeing two surprised faces. "What?"

"I was thinking you'd me more willing to relax a bit. Take a break, restart school next semester."

"I've been taking a break for the last six months," he grunted. "I mean, I'm already behind my class, way behind. And I can't really reasonably do this all on my own. Like, maths, sure. Stuff that requires a lot of memorisation and checking against some checklist, like history, that will be easy. But, I dunno, creative writing—" he shrugged and drank some of his juice. "With nobody to check it, it will be hard."

"You've given it some thought then," Mr Stark sounded... relieved?

"In a way. I mean, after I started texting with Ned and MJ and they were talking about the mess at school and how nobody knows exactly how to count what. Ned had started the same year again, because he felt like it will be the least trouble. MJ pushed ahead and asked to take all the tests and exams in July, but she feels she could have done better. Most of the Dusted half of our class did the same as Ned and they are taking all kinds of little jobs, because they have money problems, but they also take a massive amount of additional classes, because they are basically repeating everything they did already on normal ones. And then there are additional-additional classes, that are mostly about these five years, how things have changed, so recent history, politics, new inventions, computer stuff... The school got a new computer lab, too, so they can work with all this new tech. Half of the school is there on Saturdays."

He felt his energy flagging slightly.

"MJ and Ned too?"

"MJ took everything she could fit in during the week, she says, even Sunday classes in virtual reality and is working for a students' paper," he looked down at his plate, pushed a lonely piece of carrot around. "Ned has this job at the electronics store, so he had to choose, but he is either at the store or at school all the time."

"Good to hear that," Mr Stark sounded as if he was smiling. "Good use of someone's money then."

_What?_

"Fine, yes. I know. You told me so," his wife grumbled a bit.

Peter frowned, but felt too muddled to focus on anything. It might have been the longest he had spoken in one piece since... since he woke up. Exhausting thing, talking.

"Hey, hey, Peter," Mr Stark was suddenly by his side. "Wanna switch to the chair? Or just, I don't know, lie down? You shouldn't overtax yourself, come on."

Tears suddenly gathered in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill if he made ever one, tiniest sound, so he only nodded and reached out for the wheelchair. Before he could rise, a strong, supportive arm was helping him up and carefully walking him over to sit down in the soft-backed chair.

"You OK in here? Or would you rather— Oh, I haven't shown you your room. Come on, let's have a look. If you need anything, or think something is missing, just tell Friday to order it."

"OK. Room?"

"Sure. Do you want me to push or you'll try to drive it yourself?"

He touched the steering pad and buttons came to life.

"I'll try. Just... keep me from hitting anything?"

The strong squeeze of his shoulder felt wonderfully supportive.

"Sure. I'd never let you run into a wall, don't worry."

He made a cautious turn, nodding at Mrs Stark and Morgan in silence.

"Mommy, is Peter still sick?"

"Peter has just left hospital, kitten. He needs some time to get better."

"You take all the time you need, kid," Mr Stark said softly. "All the time you need."

 

#

 

The room was like something out of a story. Not necessarily a fairytale, because it wasn't in an enchanted castle or filled with spindles, but other than that - well, it was almost at the top of a tower - The Tower - and it was filled with _things_.

Books, for one. Including the contents of his bookshelves from his room back in Queens. And boxes upon boxes of stuff. And things on the shelves and in the wardrobe — everything that had been in his room on the day they...

"How?" he twirled in the chair in the middle of the floor. "How do you even..."

"We presumed, in a way. Pepper had organised it. She had security put on all flats belonging to the members of the team that got Dusted. I couldn't—" the man trailed off, looking at the shelves, waiting for their occupants. "I couldn't bear thinking about someone breaking into your flat and messing up your computer. Or whatever else. We weren't as lucky with others - Wilson's flat had been ransacked by the time we got to it. We've been looking for May for several months, too, but since she wasn't answering ads or signing herself into the Database to mark herself as alive _and_ we had no evidence of her being in one of the accidents around the city, we had to consider her Dusted."

He rolled the chair slowly towards the desk and touched the keyboard fleetingly.

"H-how bad was it?"

He glanced at his mentor, trying to gauge his reaction.

"Bad," the older man strode inside and took one of the chairs next to the desk. "Very bad. That spiel about it being fifty-fifty? More like sixty-forty in the final outcome. All kinds of accidents and random deaths, lack of resources, key position people disappearing, no access to nuclear power plants, some very avoidable catastrophies, from mining to space stations. Yeah, ISS is no more. We're putting together a replacement, but there was a strong movement against it, since people think it was one of the things that attracted attention to Earth."

"In total, Earth - and probably everyone else - is down at least ten percent of population, if I remember the analysis correctly...?" Peter leaned forward, watching his mentor's mobile face attentively.

"Well, planets with less complex technology actually fared better - people there are less dependant on a structure of support. No planes, no flying, no pilots dusted mid-flight."

"So if there was a... a farmer planet somewhere and half of the people disappeared..."

"Then, barring some war here or there, inheritance or small power vacuum, they should be OK. Flat social structure, no specialisation, well, not enough knowledge to be specialised in. If a village lost their wise woman, they can borrow the one from next village over. I'm simplifying, of course, but you can see the pattern. The higher the dependence of society on specific people filling in key positions, the bigger the loss after Decimation."

Peter tapped the space bar on his keyboard.

"I'll add it to the model, somehow. I mean, when Friday told me the numbers, I had that... idea. Rather basic. We had Demography as an elective last year - well, six... well, anyway. It was just one year, but we were talking about all these changes and fluctuations of the population growth, and reactions to the big, society-changing kinds of events, like a war — but then this would not have been like a war, war works differently—" he trailed off, trying to put it into words. "War is expected. It's— something people know—" he rubbed his face. "Tomorrow. Friday, please, make a note—"

"Of course, Peter. I've recorded this conversation and you can replay it later, if you wish."

"Just remember, kid..." Mr Stark drawled with a small smile.

"I know, sir. I know. No overdoing it."

"See that you don't. Now, your bathroom is through here and there are towels and everything inside. Um. Peter."

"I think I will manage," he said immediately. "I mean, I can stand. Just not very well."

"Yeah. But in case something happens, tell Friday to let me know."

_No way in hell._

"Sure," he nodded slowly. "I mean— thank you, Mr Stark. For all of this. Seriously. I'm just—"

"It's okay, Pete. We just want you to get better. Everyone is waiting to meet you."

"W—what?"

That little Iron Man smirk was right there.

"Everyone. Well, Strange has met you, but then Wilson is curious, Barton is very curious... Banner wants to talk to you about your web fluid design."

That straightened him up.

"Doctor Banner? I mean," he waved high above his head. "Hulk...?"

"Yeah, although he's mostly keeping to his less publicly-known image recently. Other than that, well, director Fury is very interested in meeting you, but we won't be going there—unless you wish to, that is. I'd recommend not."

"But not tomorrow...?" he sighed, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

"Not tomorrow, absolutely. Don't worry about that. And if there is anyone you don't want to meet, for any reason, you just tell me, and I will make sure they won't bother you. The same goes the other way — if you _want_ to meet someone, let me know and I will set it up."

He sounded quite serious.

Peter shivered, just slightly.

It was more than he had expected. All of it was more than he had expected. He couldn't really find the right answer to the declaration, so he just nodded and tried to smile.

"Now, I'll leave you to, well, whatever you have to do. Breakfast is whenever you are up. Morgan has school in the morning and either me or Pepper are going to the SI offices, but someone will be here."

"Thank you, sir," he managed to say. "Good night."

"See you tomorrow then."

The door closed.

The door to his room.

His room.

His own room, in Stark Tower.

In Mr Stark's actual flat.

Across the small hall from Morgan, two doors from his hosts' bedroom.

 

_I see you have the children well in hand._

_Tony, get the children to the table, please._

 

Peter swallowed the incipient sob.

 

_I miss my chatty little sidekick._

_New generation of superheroes._

_I've got you, kid._

_She loves you already._

 

He brushed his teeth and washed his face, trying to wake himself enough to stay upright under the shower, but it turned out he wouldn't have to, actually - there was a small, fold-out seat just under the showerhead, allowing him to sit down and enjoy the water in peace. There was even a basket of shower gels and shampoos at an easy reach, placed there thoughtfully by someone who had calculated how high may a sitting person reach.

That meant that either Mr Stark had guests with disability over more often or this bathroom had been remodelled - or at least adjusted - specifically for Peter.

"Friday?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"Was this... I mean, this room, and bathroom, when were they... renovated?"

"The room was remodelled in October and the bathroom was modified in November."

He sighed.

"Thanks, Friday. Um. Alarm for eight AM tomorrow, please? I don't want to sleep all day."

"Mr Stark said you should be resting."

"I've been resting for half a year," he grumbled. "I need to start working."

"Mr Stark..."

"Friday, please. Just wake me up at eight. I'll talk to Mr Stark then."

"Very well. Alarm for eight AM then."

He managed to dry himself off and dress in soft, fleecy pyjama bottoms that were waiting on a shelf in the bathroom. Using handholds installed next to the bed (thank you, Mr Stark) Peter transferred himself from the chair to the bed and gratefully sank down into the soft bedding.

It felt rather incredibly luxurious. The dark blue pillow case was crisp and smooth under his cheek, the duvet heavy and warm, leaving him pleasantly surrounded, relaxed and _safe_.

For a moment, for just a moment, he forgot why being warm and relaxed and safe was not a good idea.

He fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A child cries in the night.  
> Strange to the rescue.  
> Only...  
> Not really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count up to 13 now. I'm not really sure I will manage to close this in 13, as stuff keeps showing up, but I can assure you, this WILL BE finished, if slowly.  
> I have the text of the next 5 chapters, but it needs a LOT of editing and still may result in splitting them further. But they are, like, 95% done, just need readjustment of accents and a lot of plot management to make sure no holes are left and no weird event order makes appearance.
> 
> Edit: Two chapters pasted together (repeat of the previous one added), no bloody idea HOW. Removed now.

A whimper.

Tony sat up, Pepper next to him stiffening suddenly as they listened with all of their might.

A shaky, choked breath.

'Morgan is asleep,' Pepper mouthed, nodding at the small screen on her night table.

Indeed she was.

Which meant that the other child in the apartment was the source of the distressed sounds.

Another whimper.

He slipped on a long sleeved t-shirt and picked up a blanket. Peter was almost fine with temperatures now, but still, it was his first night away from Shuri's carefully controlled hospital room, who knew what kind of problems he might have developed in the few hours since being transferred to their care... It was better to be prepared. Touching a fingertip to his link brought Friday online.

"Peter's status?"

"No fever, boss, but his pulse is elevated and he is awake."

"Monitor and record his vital signs," he subvocalised. "Just in case."

"OK, boss."

Peter's room was darkened and warm, so it wasn't any of the recently major triggers for distress - light and cold - that had caused the boy to...

A regular moan of pain.

 _Shit_.

"Pete?" he stood at the foot of the bed. "Pete, what's wrong?"

A hitched breath.

"Nothing," came a whispered reply. "I'm fine."

But even without enhanced senses it was easy to guess that Peter was most definitely not fine. Not in the slightest. And Tony had to do something about it. Not that there was much that he _could_ do, considering the probability of Peter telling him the details was, at best, minuscule, but there had to be something, something comforting that would work in the general case of a teenage distress.

Tony knew toddler distress. With Morgan, stuff was easy. If she was hurt or ill, then she usually wanted a hug, a cuddle, someone to make her a cup of cocoa, someone to read to her. He and Pepper had toddler distress down pat. For every option there was a list of possible solutions, helping them to manage Morgan's relatively rare nervous meltdowns and equally rare bouts of cold.

Ill Peter was... was an ill teenager. Nearly an adult, actually. Ill Peter was not exactly an explored area - despite all the time in the hospital, since hospital and treatments and surgeries were something out of the ordinary, even as illnesses go. If Tony's guesses were correct (based on his own instincts right here and now), what Peter would require was a pat on the shoulder, someone check on him from time to time, a mug of well-sweetened tea to give his amped-up metabolism some sugar to burn through and, mostly, for people not to coo over him.

And Shuri had given him just that. Berated him, made cautious fun of him, poked him and prodded. Stephen treated him like a proper grownup - fortunately not in the "man up, don't be a girl" fashion - and other doctors were neutrally kind, not testing Peter's easily overloaded senses and keeping their reasonable distance, giving him exactly what was everyone expected an average teenage male to want.

But then...

Tony bit into his lip, thinking.

But then scared-on-an-alien-planet-Peter had reached out for him. Fear reduced the normally terrifyingly self-sufficient boy to someone who just wanted a hug, too. Whenever Tony closed his eyes, he saw - and felt - what Peter had looked like on that ugly day on Titan, collapsing into Tony's arms just as his body was starting to let go. And then, five years later, how he reached out, in the middle of the battleground, just seconds after having been brought back to them. He had, repeatedly, reached out to Tony himself for physical comfort.

Because, maybe, just maybe, just potentially, Peter needed a hug. A proper, long, warm hug, not the hold-pat-release kind that Tony had been mainly practising, but a long, hold-me-to-you, let-me-rest here type of hug. Now that he thought of it, the cuddle session on the couch seemed to have been comforting to everyone involved. Including Tony, if he was to be honest.

He made his way around the bed and sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress.

"Hi, kid," he breathed, feeling cautiously for Peter's shoulder. "What is..."

Peter flinched. And gasped. And buried his face in the thick pillow, muffling the sounds.

"What's wrong? Talk to me, kid, I'm not a clairvoyant, I can't guess what is..."

"Hurts," came a choked whisper. "Hurts so much."

"What? Peter, kid, what's," he paused as the boy rolled slightly towards him and moaned. "Is it the scarring? Shuri said it should be just a few days until it's done being itchy."

"No itch," a breath. "Just hurts. Just... just hurts."

"Work with me here, for a moment. What hurts? Scars? Your hand? Your head? Is it just today, or..."

"My hand," the boy gasped. "And it's all the time, for the last week. Always..." he tensed up. "Comes in waves. Whenever I stop... paying attention. It's waiting."

"What did Shuri say about it?"

Peter cringed and mumbled something.

"I don't have spider enhanced hearing, but I am guessing, and please tell me I am guessing wrongly, but I am guessing what you've just said was 'I never told her about it'. Because if that was what you said, I am going to be rather unhappy with you..."

Peter curled up, holding his hand to his chest.

"Shit. I'm calling Shuri."

"Don't," a whisper stopped him. "She has... she has more important problems. It's only been a few days, it will fade. I just... I can deal with it, OK?"

"Obviously you can't," Tony reached out again, this time more firmly, catching the trembling shoulder.

Peter cried out softly.

"This is all kinds of bad, kid," Tony reached around Peter and pulled him up. "Come on, look at me. How bad is it, compare to something I may know."

Peter's face screwed up in effort.

"Ever broken more than one bone, like, forearm? Or your palm?"

He nodded cautiously.

"The same. But," he gasped, "but constant. I know it's not true, because I can bloody _see_ my hand! But I feel like it's is on fire from the inside, being worked over and over by a hammer. It's nearly as bad... _as the gauntlet..._ "

"Shit."

"And, and anyway, I've told one of the doctors, that, that..." a shiver wrecked Peter's whole body, "that there may be something wrong, because sometimes I feel touch that isn't there, or, or, or heat or cold, but he only said it's the effect of the nerves reconnecting, and..."

Peter paused and bit into his lower lip, eyes squeezing shut, tight.

"He gave me some painkiller at the time and it stopped. For a while. But he said... he said 'I hope you won't need it again'" Peter swallowed with an effort. "So I tried... I tried not to need it. I really tried! Most times, it's almost fine, like, like just this kind of dull throbbing, but if I stop, you know, paying attention, it catches me and then it's hard to make it go away... I know it's stupid and I should be able to man up and control this, but..."

"Wait, wait. Man up? Control this? What the hell are you blathering about? How do you want to control the pain...?"

"I..." Peter hesitated. "I think it away? Kind of focus on sending it far and so I can't feel it all that much?"

He blinked.

"You meditate the pain away?"

"I... I suppose so..."

"And then you go to sleep and it all lets go and you..."

Peter nodded slowly.

"And it's been how long? A week, you say?"

The boy tried to look away, but hissed as he moved his head.

"Shit, shit. Lie down. Probably pulling at your muscles doesn't do you a whit of good."

He helped Peter to slowly descend to the pillow, arranging his injured hand on top of the downy duvet.

"Now, I'm going just to the kitchen, to make you some tea - with milk, yes, I know - and to ask our friendly neighbourhood wizard to have a look at you, because Friday is reporting that from her point of view you should be perfectly fine - including you no longer being in the phase of regrowing anything. You stay here and meditate... what?"

"You can call him from here," Peter sighed. "And I don't need tea. I'd much rather..."

_Oh. Think Morgan, Tony. Think Morgan._

"You'd rather have me sit here, for a moment?"

In the middle of the large bed, made up with dark blue sheets with subtle silver star pattern, Peter looked much younger than his birth certificate declared (even taking into account the lost five year period). He looked small, vulnerable and kind of lonely. And shaky.

"Friday, call doctor Strange, as many times as needed to wake him up. We are having a situation here."

"Ok, Boss."

Peter shivered suddenly, his teeth chattering.

"Cold," he wheezed. "I'm cold. Like ants in my bones. Itchy and cold and-d-d-d..."

He slid into the boy's bed without thinking much and pulled the blanket-wrapped form to himself, sharing his body heat with the exhausted teenager.

"S'good, s'good..." he heard the frantic whisper as Peter burrowed closer. "T's so good..."

"It's OK. Com'ere," he answered softly and tightened his hold. "Sleep, if you can. Tell me if this helps."

Peter nodded jerkily, his injured arm pillowed on Tony's chest, head coming to rest just below Tony's chin.

It took him rather long to fall asleep, but when his breath finally evened and the little twitches along his arm stopped being accompanied by whimpers of pain, Tony felt him somehow relaxing into the hold.

_What kind of shit will this kid have to live through before this all goes back to normal?_

He stiffened with a sudden dread.

_What is this never goes back to normal?_

He had to hope. He had to get the kid the help he needed.

_Anything and everything, Peter. Anything and everything._

 

####

 

"That's bad," Strange was watching Peter with intensity that made Tony's skin crawl. "That's not... normal," the wizard elaborated. "That's all kinds of messed up, as the kids would say these days. OK. First things first, Peter, do you want to go to sleep now? The kind that will not hurt and not bring up any dreams?"

It had been three hours since he had ordered Friday to get the wizard to them and two hours since Peter had awoken from his less-than-an-hour bit of nap. He had been in pain ever since and nothing Tony did managed to relieve it. The eagerness with which the kid confirmed was heartbreaking.

"Very well. Stark, hold his hand. I need to give him something stable to depend on and..." a wave of warmth went down Tony's arm and pulsed into Peter's. "Done."

With a soft sound of a body meeting fluffy bedding, the kid was asleep, indeed.

And no longer trying to shield himself against the whole reality.

His fingers tingled with the need to check his pulse, but Tony didn't want to wake him up unnecessarily.

"He is fine," the wizard said shortly. "I will let him sleep for about ten hours and when I wake him up, he should be quite rested. It will be better to hook him up to an IV for fluids though, he will definitely need it."

"They took out all the cannulas he had," Tony bit his lip. "Would we have to get someone here to do that?"

"Not at all. I still have some skills from my basic training, after all."

In fact, Strange turned out to be more careful in installing the new IV than some nurses Tony had met. On the other hand, these nurses had been treating _him_ , an annoying idiot adrenaline junkie druggie drunkard, while Strange was trying to fix The Boy Who Saved The World. That might have affected the way things played out.

"So, saline and some nutrients. We don't want him wasting away because his metabolism decides to ramp up suddenly," Strange murmured. "Now, let's see what I can do about the neural... mess."

"I thought you had fixed the neural mess."

He wasn't being sarcastic or anything, but Strange glared at him sharply.

"If that kid hadn't been a self-sacrificing stupid superhero, just like his bloody mentor, he would have told me he was hurting and I'd have identified it earlier. Or at least had a chance to work on it earlier. I will need to do some tests..." the neurologist trailed off, tugging at his goatee.

"What tests? Anything we can help with - hardware, reagents..."

"Ideas," Strange mumbled. "I'm out of fucking ideas. And I mean it completely seriously, Stark. As deep as I can look into the structure of his neurons, they seem to be perfectly healthy, yet some of them are sparkling off with sensations that should not be there. If there was inflammation, it would have been some kind of a reason, but this? This is pure, unadulterated nonsense."

Tony squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"OK. We'll have to move Peter to medical floor, to have everything on hand. And it will be easier to get him... whatever. MRI, CT...? Anyway, better than here, because I'd rather not do this all across the corridor from Morgan's room."

Strange glanced towards the door.

"Definitely, we'd better prepare to move him. We can do it now, it will be easier with him asleep, actually."

"I'll carry him," Tony leaned over the prone, sleeping boy. "Open the door."

"I'd rather open a portal" the wizard waved his hand in a circle. "Now, come across. This will be less of a hassle... and less discomfort to everyone."

It was. He strode through the portal and deposited Peter on the free bed - they were in the first infirmary room, right next to the diagnostic suite and main laboratory -- tucking the comforter around the boy and fixing the pillow to the correct position.

"MRI?"

"If you have it on hand, yes. CT, too. Anything I can use to have a look inside the kid. Who knows what this shit is."

Tony had absolutely no idea what said shit may be, but he was not a neurologist. Having a neurologist - an world-renown neurosurgeon with several protocols and methods named after him - and a wizard, in one, declare he is our of his depth was disquieting.

Peter's sleep - deepened by Strange, who seemed to be rather visibly worried by now - made him the perfect patient for MRI. They managed to get him through the scans relatively without issues, only roping in the night duty nurse to help them with manoeuvring the bed. The young man shook his head at the way his employer and Strange went about it all, but having been present at several occasions when one or the other of the Avengers dropped by with "minor" contusions (which invariably evolved into stuff of medical nightmares), he was experienced enough not to ask.

"There is nothing on these fucking scans," Strange murmured, dragging a hand down his face. "No contusion, no inflammation, just the neurons firing away like..." he prodded one of the prints. "Like some screwy fireworks."

"How long can you keep him under like this?"

"Not long enough for us to find a solution before I have to bring him back. And that has to be done pretty carefully. I've basically convinced a part of his brain that his hand simply doesn't exist, so the signals are not coming through... But that means that if I wake him up like this, he may experience dysmorphia, which can lead to future issues and we don't want Spider-Man having problems related to his limbs, do we? So to make it safe, first I have to "connect" the pieces back, put that hand online in a way, which means it will start hurting before he wakes up completely."

The wizard's hands were shaking.

"He can sleep for five hours more, but not more than that. I'll be back to wake him up," Strange chewed on his lip for a moment. "Will you stay with him? Just in case something goes wrong, you'd need to call me immediately. If he starts waking up or moving that hand..."

"There is no way I'd move out of this room, unless the building is on fire," Tony dragged the heavy visitor's chair closer to the bed and collapsed in it, feeling suddenly very, very tired.

"Ten, maximum ten hours," Strange murmured, looking at the chart and turning to the nurse. "OK, I'll be back around noon. Make sure the hydration is kept at this level, oxygen is fine... BP and heart rate elevated, but hopefully that's just him being enhanced. I'd need some baseline values from him one day, for comparison. Thomas? OK, Thomas, make sure that Peter's monitors are connected correctly. He won't move, but who knows. And check his blood sugar every hour. If it falls below the limit I calculated here, have Mr Stark call me immediately."

Tony sank lower in the chair and, gradually, felt the other two men floating away from him.

There was only Peter, on the new bed, this time all in crispy white, covered with the dark blue duvet.

There were Peter's hands, laid out on the dark blue, right one slightly curled, left one stretched out, palm up, in mute supplication for contact.

He looked at the thin-fingered, lightly scarred hand in front of him and picked it up, holding it in both of his, with all his will infusing it with warmth.

"I really wish that the road to being superhero didn't lead through fire, Peter," he pressed his lips to the boy's knuckles. "I know that most of us go through shit - Rogers and Barnes are examples of the amount of crap one can be forced to live with. Banner has his green face, I have a hole in my chest and some serious PTSD still to be dealt with... Everyone has a story. I wished... I hoped yours was already done. A spider bite, Aunt May as the last living relative, a dumbass of a mentor leading you astray. All part of the common Hero's Journey. Because you are already a hero, Peter. You are an Avenger, whatever the others would say. I don't... I don't want you to have to go through this. You've already had your Afghanistan, but this looks more like Siberia to me. At least you are going through this in a safe place, but I wish, I dearly wish you didn't have to go through this at all."

"Stark."

He looked up, meeting the wizard's cool, blue eyes.

"He had to. The other options were..." Strange paused and shook his head. "Inconceivable. And he would have suffered much more, had we gone that way."

Tony tried to process what he had just learnt, but his brain rejected the very idea of accepting the quiet explanation.

"What the hell...?"

"He will get better. We'll make sure of it. He will have people who will help him. I admit, I never looked that far ahead, but... There was one other reality that ensured our final victory, but the price we had to pay was too high. I hoped it would not have come to this."

Tony turned back to the hand he was slowly massaging with his thumbs.

"What was the price?" he felt numb inside, waiting for the answer.

"You."

He felt a cold shiver sneaking down his spine.

"What?"

"It was just like Peter said when you visited for the first time. You don't have his healing factor. I saw you snap your fingers and I saw your wife and your boy holding you as you died. There was nothing that anyone could have done to save you."

"So you chose the option in which _he_ got hurt?!" Tony let go of Peter's fingers and grabbed the wizard's jacket. "Why the hell would you do _that_?"

"Because that's what Peter would have wanted," Strange answered calmly. "You are alive. He is alive. He is suffering, yes, but this can be dealt with, one way of another. He will get better. Not today, because I'm out of ideas, but he will. With so many people in his corner, how could he not?"

"I hope it will be enough."

"So do I, Stark. So do I. He's something else, this kid of yours."

He ground his teeth.

"Not..."

"I know. Not really yours. But you wish he was, right?"

Tony closed his eyes for a moment.

"For the time being, I wish he was healthy, Strange. That's all I wish for today."

The wizard disappeared with as little flair as it was possible for someone actually using a sparkly magical portal in the air, his cape fluttering behind him on a non-existent wind.

Tony settled in the soft chair and clasped Peter's hand in his own again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :)  
> If you notice any kinds of errors or broken sentences, please point them out (ruthlessly, in the comments), because after 4 days of editing I can only hope I didn't leave some big mess in it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up.  
> Stephen has an idea.

Morgan had managed to wake Pepper up around seven, when she found out that 'Petey' was not in his room and Daddy was nowhere to be found. Soon both of them — having consulted with Friday as to the current location of their two lost  — appeared on the medical floor, staring at sleeping Peter in confusion.

"Strange suggested we should move him here," he whispered tiredly, hiding his face in his wife's soft side. "Easier to monitor and..."

"Daddy, why is Petey still asleep? I wanted to bring some LEGOs to build with him. He promised...!"

"Come on, kitten," he nodded. "I'll explain."

With an armful of his curious daughter and his wife settled next to him on the armrest, he picked up Peter's hand and summarised the events of the previous hours, trying to explain everything in as Morgan-friendly way as possible.

"...so he will be sleeping, because doctor Stephen gave him sleeping medicine, to allow him to rest. And he will be staying down here for several more days, because he will have fever or will need someone to sit with him, or will need medicine... And it will be safer for him to be closer to all this medical machinery here."

"Can I stay here, too? Because I wanted to show Petey the new box... I'll be real quiet, I promise!"

He hugged her mutely.

 

####

 

Strange was back before five hours passed, no more able to answer the most important question of the day than he was when he had left.

"There is nothing _wrong_ with his nerves. No injury, no strain anywhere near to this area. This is an insult to logic and reason! Not that I wish for any of these, but at least I'd have... something! Something to work on!"

The wizard raved and raged. The wizard muttered and mumbled.

Finally, the wizard sat down in another soft chair and cursed. In Chinese, probably.

Tony rubbed his face with both hands. He hadn't slept a wink. Not only because of Peter, but also because of his daughter, who had cried herself into a small attack of nerves at the news of her childhood hero being incapacitated yet again. The demands of "Make Peter okay right now" and questions of "why is he sick now, he was fine yesterday!?" echoed his own closely enough for him to be unable to reject them as baseless.

He wished he had the option to just go spare. To throw things around, to hit a wall, to break down crying.

He ground his teeth together and waited it out. May would be coming soon, May would have to be told.

May would blame him.

Quite rightly, too.

It was his fault, all his bloody fault.

He was more than willing to admit it. Hell, he would say it first — had he been more competent, had he prepared his suit better, had he—

The kid would not have been lying now in front of him in magicked sleep, like some damn cursed princess. His boy was not a damsel in distress, his boy was a superhero. Better than his teacher, better than all of them...!

He caught himself before the hyperventilating got really bad. Really, really, he couldn't afford this right at that moment. Peter needed him. He gently gathered the sleep-soft hand in his and prayed, like he hadn't done in ages. His personal faith was never much of a god-oriented thing, but for now, at that particular moment, he was sending a fervent message to whoever was listening to all human requests.

'You've put this kid in my life. Why would you take him away now? Is this some kind of a revenge? But why _him_?!'

 

####

 

Somewhere, down the corridor, three women were talking.

Peter found himself unable to focus on that fact.

Peter was mostly focused on the way his hand seemed at the same time on fire and immersed in ice.

Their voices were familiar.

Focus.

_"...reading it. Will allow me to find any kinds of issues."_

_"Incredible. And people don't believe in them?"_

_"Well. They say it's unscientific rubbish. As if anything we do was scientific...!"_

_"Tony's inventions are **mostly** scientific."_

_A laughter._

_"What he does with that technology borders on magic."_

Someone in the room groaned.

" **Her** again."

_Oh. Doctor Stephen._

Peter tried smiling, but smiling required effort.

He flexed his fingers slightly, but there was something holding his left hand immobile.

"Hi, kiddo," a gruff voice from the side whispered. "How are you doing?"

He tried moving his hand again, but then something squeezed it.

Warm and...

Oh. Mr Stark was holding his hand.

"Hurts."

One word was already too much.

"Hello, Peter. Can you try opening your eyes?"

Doctor Stephen on his other side.

_Opening eyes._

_Not opening. Definitely not opening._

He tried shaking his head, but every move pulled at his right hand more than he could stand.

"Hurts."

Why was it hurting so much?

What was it—

He tried focusing.

Focusing helped before.

Peter felt his breath stuttering as he thought about it.

"Strange, anything you can do to help him?"

A warmth over his heart. Something was pressing there—massaging—?

"Just breathe, Peter. Just breathe. We'll find some way out of this."

"Msstark."

"Yeah, it's me. We've lowered the lights and closed the door, you can try opening your eyes now. May will be coming by any minute now."

"Oh."

It was hard.

Then there was something cold touching his eyes and wiping and— saline drops. And a cotton bud. OK.

"Crack them open, slightly, and we'll drop some more in. Your eyes might have gone a bit dry."

After more drops and a change of his sweaty t-shirt, he was sat up, with pillows and the bed's movable upper third behind his back and Mr Stark's hands slowly lowering him into a good position.

A better position. Nothing was very good. Not anymore.

He clutched the lifeline offered to him — his mentor's hand — and tried to calm down his breathing again.

It wasn't working out so well.

"Now, Peter, does it hurt more or less than yesterday?"

"mr"

"I see. Now, is it spreading further or hurting more in the same place?"

His elbow felt as if someone had pulled it out and then smashed it back into place and then added a few hits with a hammer.

But...

Not higher. Or he wasn't feeling it all that well, but he wasn't hurting above his elbow.

"Same," he whispered.

"So the area affected remain, but intensity is growing," doctor Stephen murmured, probably to himself. That feeling was confirmed when he heard, "Poor child," breathed by the wizard as he turned away.

He wasn't a child.

He was supposed to be a man.

A hero.

A superhero!

He was an enhanced, powered and...

He couldn't stop the moan that escaped him as a line of _pain_ ran down his forearm.

"He's here, May."

The door opened.

Mrs Stark.

Aunt May.

And... someone. High heels. Swishy clothing. Red.

"Oh, Peter...!"

"Careful, May. It seems there is some kind of neurological issue Strange can't identify," Mr Stark stopped her before he had a chance to react to the incipient hug.

Wide, red eyes focused on him.

Aunt May sat at his injured side and looked at him sorrowfully.

"Hi," he whispered.

"Hi, baby. I'm so sorry you are sick again," she reached out and caressed his cheek. "I hate seeing you so ill."

"I'm sorry..."

He tried sitting higher, but every move was pulling on the muscles that were...

Everything went white.

He dropped back to the pillows, fighting for a breath, both May and Mr Stark leaning over him - Mr Stark supporting his back, May holding up his head - cushioning his fall in tandem, straightening him, pulling the thick, warm duvet up.

"Don't try to do anything strenuous, kiddo," Mr Stark squeezed his shoulder. "You've been asleep for over ten hours and this IV is not really enough to feed you, long-term. Not with your metabolism."

"Not hungry," he murmured.

"Which only means your brain is still asleep. We can add something to his current IV, but we'll start with antivirals, just in case it's linked to varicella zoster virus, and maybe some painkillers..." doctor Stephen was walking around, fetching things from the shelves.

"Won't work," May sat down again, sounding dejected. "We've found out one time he had this blinding headache from sitting in the sun. Nothing works."

"Morphine...?" Mrs Stark whispered in the lull.

"Better not. There is no way to determine reasonably what kind of reaction Peter will have, if over the counter drugs are metabolised at that rate."

Peter frowned, trying to remember why this was not necessarily true, but his memories had apparently not woken up yet either, so he was coming up with nothing.

"But, that virus?" May's fingers tightened on Peter's shoulder.

"Chickenpox. Once you've had it, it stays in the nerve cells. At what age did Peter contract it...?"

A moment of silence stretched into minutes as Peter considered the question.

"I dinnt," he provided finally.

"That's right," May sounded confused. "Peter was vaccinated against chickenpox when his daycare reported that they had several kids out with it."

"It means that he might have come in contact with it, but not really gone through the standard form. Anyway, it may help in case there is anything else..." doctor Stephen trailed off, looking at the vials in his hands. "And a round of antibiotics. And additional glucose. And..."

Peter was getting really tired. Really, seriously tired.

Someone walked into the room and that garnered a reaction from doctor Stephen, who bodily pushed them out, saying something about enough people for one patient.

Them? Her?

The girl in red clothes.

"Who?" he asked May, as she had apparently been talking to the stranger.

"That's Scarlet Witch, kiddo," Mr Stark provided quickly. "You've seen her before."

Yeah, he did. Surrounded by a cloud of red magic.

"Wanda," he managed to say.

Wanda was young, he knew. Maybe a bit older than him, but not _old_ like the rest of the Avengers. He vaguely remembered her having a brother... And there was something... Someone said...

He couldn't. His memories were there, but the pathways to many of them had been randomised, making it hard to pull up the correct memory, as he kept getting a variety of completely unrelated ones when he tried to find something about Wanda. He felt like a broken hard drive with very fucked-up file allocation table. Very seriously fucked-up one.

He dearly hoped one day it would all snap — ooh, wrong word — it would all slot back into place.

His hand throbbed again and an involuntary moan of pain surprised everyone in the room.

"Hey, kiddo," Mr Stark leaned closer, radiating warmth and a ridiculously comforting feeling of safety. "I know you can't sleep, and Strange had just woken you up half an hour ago, but maybe you could try to nap? The hand will be hurting, there is no way around it, but... You know, just as a way of passing time?"

Peter nodded slightly.

But.

But.

The last time he managed to fall asleep...

He managed to get his lower lip to stop trembling. And he got the pout under control.

He was supposed to be a nearly-almost-grownup.

He didn't need his mentor holding his hand. Or any other adult. At all. Totally and absolutely.

"Try, just for a moment, kiddo. I’ll go upstairs and change, make sure Morgan is not pestering Pepper too much and I'll be back in an hour or two."

"'k," he managed to whisper, trying not to feel too despondent.

And then Mr Stark kissed his forehead.

"Be good for your aunt, Peter. She was worried."

Mr Stark.

Kissed his forehead.

As in, leaned over, hugged him slightly and held him for a moment and kissed him.

It might have been that kiss.

Or maybe the sudden loss of warmth when the man left the room.

Or maybe it was just a particularly nasty stab of pain in his elbow.

Peter's tears fell silently.

"Mrs Parker, I will have to contact some specialists around the world, as I'm not…" doctor Stephen paused. "I'm not sure what we are looking at. I can try to eliminate all mundane factors, starting with the chickenpox, but I must admit, I'm not sure it will help. Unfortunately, I don't see anything on the astral level, which is worrying, as this has to reflect somewhere. These signals are not just appearing out of thin air…!"

May nodded slowly.

"Whatever is needed, doctor. If you need us to sign something or… just get him help."

"I will," the wizard turned to him. "Now, Pete… I'm afraid this is going to be unpleasant. Hopefully we'll avoid nausea, but since you metabolise your medicines so rapidly, I don't think any anti-nausea meds will help. Hopefully, the antivirals and antibiotics will work before your organism gets rid of them."

There was a movement of his IV and he tried peering up, despite the pain in his neck.

"A new glucose dose and the medicine, don’t worry," a thin, warm hand pressed into his shoulder. Doctor Stephen's touch was reassuring, if fleeting. "Now, as Mr Stark said, it would be best if you managed to nap, but I know it may be impossible. I will be back in the evening, to help you get some sleep during the night."

"'nk you," he managed to whisper.

"No, Peter. Thank you. If not for you… we'd all be in much worse state."

Doctor Stephen took the same chair that Mr Stark had been sitting on, leaned forward and looked at Peter seriously.

"I've told you before, but apparently some things didn't stick. The whole world should be grateful to you. You, Peter Parker, saved it. What you did was exceptional on a cosmic scale. You got rid, in a very precise manner, in the middle of the battle, of all enemy combatants, using tech that was unfamiliar to you. You have used a tool that was never supposed to be used by any mortal and still survived. That may lead us to a conclusion that you and Hulk have something in common…" 

"Yeah," he whispered. "We are both too stupid to know what's good for us."

"Just don't let Dr Banner hear you say this," May smiled tremulously.

"Well, he might just get angry enough at me to Hulk out and then I'd be in _real_ trouble," he answered, slipping down the pillows, to lie more flatly. If he couldn't lean on Mr Stark's warmth, what was the point of sitting up?

"Oh, baby. I wish—"

Yeah, Peter had some wishes, too.

He wished he was younger, so he wouldn't have to stop himself from demanding a hug from any friendly adult. Because that was what he wished for, desperately.

And he wished he was older, so he wouldn't _feel_ that desperate need for a hug. So that he could manage his emotions in a more mature fashion and not cry at every tiniest twinge of stupid pain in his hand.

And he wished he was someone else, maybe someone who doesn't get into idiotic shit like this, but lives normally, or more responsibly. Someone who can say, from day to day, that they know what they are doing with their life, instead of just surviving a very careful, painstaking dance on the edge of a knife.

He drew a shuddering breath. Doctor Stephen touched his shoulder cautiously, as if he was made of glass.

"Now, young man, listen. We are looking for a solution, so don't you even think about giving up. If needed, there are resources to search for solution on any number of alien planets. So... You just keep fighting. Keep up the good work - and this is your task for this week - making sure you're getting better. No stupid stunts, just focus on the fact that your healing factor is a great, unexplored capability and it may just be the thing to conquer this mess."

He nodded, slightly. Not convinced. Not at all.

Because Peter was quite sure his healing factor had done all it could, for now at least. There were no more parts to be rebuilt. He was done. He was fixed, but still broken. Whatever was wrong with him could not be corrected by yet another attempt at regrowing a missing neural path.

"See you in the evening, Peter," the wizard added, his eyes focused on something in his hand. "I'll drop by and— I hope I'll have better news for you then."

Oh, so did Peter. So definitely did Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chickenpox virus stays in your body forever, once you get sick. It may hit later on, when the organism is in stress or in worse state and show up as shingles. It usually appears along some strip of nerve cells and may leave you with long-lasting nerve pain.  
> (and it's actually pretty scary when you find out you have it on your face, especially near the eyes)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems like someone has an answer. Or at least a theory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count up to 15, because it keeps growing inside. Seriously. It was supposed to be 5 or something, when I started.  
> I can promise you I already know how it ends (this is written) and I'm now making logical corrections to the Big Solution (because it's written but a bit shaky).

The rest of the day was spent on breathing exercises to manage the pain; reading on his pad when he could focus; quietly counting the hours until the salvation (in the form of a tall, well-dressed wizard) would appear; putting on a brave face for Morgan, who had brought him the promised box of LEGOs and talking with May and with Pepper, who brought him lunch prepared by one of the nutritionists who specialised in supercharged metabolisms.

"Selina knows best what you need, since she has the exact instructions from Stephen," she said, settling the tray over his legs. "And she prepared everything in form that can be eaten with one hand... or, if you are really desperate, slurped with a straw. Although if you go for the second option, I will take Morgan back to the flat and keep her away for the duration, or we won't have a calm meal until the end of the year."

"Ugh, blergh, never," he informed her immediately. "No, no slurping. I'd rather not go that low. I am quite able to eat with just my left. Had to do it a few times before."

May frowned at him and it was obvious she was trying to calculate the last time she saw him stubbornly doing things with his left hand instead of his right, and what explanation he had given her. She probably wouldn't be happy once she managed to recall that particular instance (since it was when he managed to smash into the side of the building and bruise his right hand from the shoulder to the wrist), not at all.

He focused on eating.

He still wasn't hungry as such, not really, but from the tiniest tremor in his left hand (annoying) and the way his head felt (light) and the way his focus wandered (a lot) he knew he needed more food. The IVs were OK temporarily, but not long-term, not with the way he burned through calories. And he _really_ didn't want to try any other feeding options. Like, a tube. Yuck.

Peter made his way through the meal slowly, resting every few spoonfuls and focusing on willing the pain away - meditating, it probably was. Meditating however sounded a bit too sophisticated, like something Doctor Stephen would do, while Peter was simply thinking about his pain going away from his hand... Probably not the same thing.

He ate the cubed chicken and pureed potato, slowly, bite by bite.

At least whatever the hell was wrong with his hand did not make him nauseous, and - despite doctor Stephen's worry - neither did the array of medicines, so while he wasn't _hungry_ , he could safely eat as much as he _thought_ he should eat and not risk becoming sick.

Having cleaned two plates and three glasses of "supersoldier shake" (still disgusting), he found pain management to be much easier, suddenly.

Not perfectly controlled or immediately working, but easier.

Therefore, they built LEGOs.

The set brought by Morgan was in fact a bit too complicated for her, even with her pretty advanced spatial imagination and ability to work symmetrically on two sides of a bigger construction, so they had to pause often and check the booklet to ensure correct position of everything.

It was something of a distraction — just enough for the hand not to be the main focus, but not too much for him to be able to think the pain away. Nearly perfect, actually. Well, if baseline was how shitty he had felt just after waking up, that is. At least now he was conscious, coherent, able to speak in whole sentences and not that prone to crying at the drop of a hat. Making brave face for Morgan's sake helped, too — focusing on someone else _was_ good for him.

"I think we'll have to put these on the tray and finish tomorrow," he said regretfully when Morgan nearly fell asleep on his stomach at some point. "Come on, kiddo, help me pick them all up from the comforter."

"Wanna sleep with you today," the girl whined.

"Ah, no can do, pumpkin," Mr Stark's hands picked her up and hoisted her high, onto his shoulder. "You've bothered Peter enough for one day and you have to go upstairs and eat your dinner. I'll be back as soon as I get her settled, Pete."

He just nodded, quite unable to translate his feelings into words.

It felt _good_ to sit with Morgan like this. If not for the hand and the general exhaustion - and he would be happy to be done with _that_ \- it could have been a rather perfect way to spend an afternoon. He could imagine himself sitting on the floor for hours, helping Morrie put together yet another construction. Or maybe taking the whole container of pieces and building an enormous castle, with all the random towers and bridges and lifts and things. Or...

A raised voice outside made him lose his grasp on the wispy vision.

_"...idiotic ideas!"_

_"If you weren't such a stubborn dick...!"_

_"You won't be telling me how to treat my..."_

They moved, their voices lost in the groan and murmur of the machinery of the huge building around him.

Why was doctor Stephen arguing with someone?

Better yet, why was someone arguing with doctor Stephen?

Doctor Stephen was pretty smart.

And he was a wizard.

Who argues with a wizard...?

Ah.

Wanda.

He considered for a moment the generalised idea of witches and wizards, trying to imagine what the place that made doctor Stephen a sorcerer must have looked like. Was it like Hogwarts? Or more like an old monastery? Wong was like a monk, so...

Someone was walking by his room.

Heels.

She stopped by the door.

He waited, all ears...

A sigh.

_Wanda._

He heard the heels retreating down the corridor.

Did he want her to come in?

Did he want to talk to a witch who manipulated minds and—

But then May had been talking to her. And Mr Stark seemed to be fine— it was just doctor Stephen who didn't like her. It was—

Peter sighed. Maybe it would have been nice to talk to her at some point, but right now, with his hand like this, with everything— Not the best first impression he could make. Not by a long shot. Meeting new team members when you are a shivering, barely useful wreck? Not cool. Definitely not an image one wanted to present to a really freakishly powerful witch, even if she was friendly now.

All that thinking was taking a toll on him and his head was growing heavy and full of all the sounds around him. What he wanted... What he wanted wasn't there.

He tried leaning back on his pillows, but they were uneven and didn't really prop him up anymore. Reaching up to correct them didn't really help, because it meant either supporting himself on the injured arm (not recommended, definitely) or trying to push the pillows together with it (probably even worse). Also, they slipped. And then his hand slipped, too, and he thumped with impact into the soft mattress, jarring his overtense muscles and letting go of the small amount of attention he had been paying to keeping the pain at bay.

The sudden explosion of whiteness behind his eyelids left him gasping for air and shaking as waves of nausea suddenly rolled all over him, wrenching his stomach into a tight knot.

"...ete? Kiddo, come on. _Strange!_ Something's wrong! Friday, what the fuck happened here?"

"Peter was trying to correct the position of the pillows, boss. It seems he had lost his balance and dropped to the mattress, affecting his hand. I cannot detect any specific injury, but..."

"Yeah, we know. Nobody can."

Someone was seating him up, his face soothed by the touch of the cool fabric. Strong hold, strong, steady hold. Safe. Safe hold.

The pillows were moving behind his back.

Not on their own, he hoped.

Pillows moving on their own would be _bad_.

Anything moving on its own was bad, wasn't it?

Why was the room moving then?

Oh.

It wasn't the room.

It was him.

Slowly, slowly. Back. Pillows.

Someone wiping away the tears that his eyes had shed of their own volition.

He couldn't remember crying.

"You have to hold on, Pete. You have to hold on. We'll find a solution. Whatever it is, we'll get it for you. I promise."

Ah.

Mr Stark.

He made a valiant attempt at a smile.

"You should," he whispered, "go to Morgan. She will..."

"She just kicked me out and ordered me to go and 'make Petey better', so I just can't go back there. Now, is there _anything_ that could, potentially, make this shit a little less shitty?"

He couldn't help but grin at the way his mentor tried to lighten the mood by breaking the "appropriate language" rule that all adults still seemed to apply around him.

"Not really. I mean—" he paused to gather his thoughts. "— it just hurts. If I—"

It was hard to keep his mind on one specific thread or idea.

In general, talking was a challenge.

Mostly, he just wanted to stop.

Everything was a challenge.

Everything.

Stop.

Everyone.

Stop.

Peter.

Stop.

Just stop.

Just...

"Peter, no. No!"

There was a pulsing in his hand, a tug in his head and an overwhelming feeling of wrongness, everywhere.

_A pulse in his hand._

 

And it was all wrong.

And his skin was suddenly too tight for him.

His mind was... somewhere else.

Or, more precisely, everywhere else.

Well, in his own body.

But... in HD.

What this level of focus on his own self brought him was not exactly pleasant.

He wasn't supposed to know that his nails grew six millimetres a month, twice the rate of a normal human.

He wasn't supposed to be able to count the hairs on his hands - on average one hundred and three per square inch.

He wasn't supposed to be able to calculate, with very high precision, where exactly the odd-alien-painful feeling ended over his elbow.

He could feel every thread of linen in the hospital sheets below him and every feather of down in the comforter covering him and...

_A pulse._

 

And two hands, holding his body as their owner cradled him to his own warmth, saying something, panicking, asking...

"...anymore, please. Just stay with me, OK? We will find a way to solve this, but you have to promise me, you won't..."

_A pulse._

 

...and then the focus went outward...

_"Cried herself to sleep."_

_"Poor kitten. I wonder how it is that she became so attached so quickly..."_

_"Sibling love at first sight. And Tony primed her over the years. She loved Peter before she had a chance to even understand it, I think."_

_"Let's just hope she and Tony won't be hurt..."_

_"...cleanse it?"_

_"No, it doesn't work like this. You can't cleanse an aura. It shows what is wrong, but by itself, it is never wrong. You have to heal the body to make it show healthy in the aura."_

_"Oh. So it means all these commercials about people who can cleanse someone's aura...?"_

_"Complete and utter sham."_

_"The panels designed based on the human eye structures. Well, human. Mutate. He took his own eye as an example..."_

_"Smart kid. Let's just hope he lives long enough."_

_"...working on a painkiller that will work for me. Hopefully it will also work for Peter."_

_"I thought... Nevermind."_

_..._ far, far away from what seemed to be the very temporary container...

_"...seen the boss for two days. No idea what is going on, they say family emergency."_

_"The squirt sick? I thought she looked OK yesterday."_

_"No, the other kid."_

_"Boss has no other kid."_

_"Well, don't quote me on that, but I think he has one."_

_"There has to be something we can do...! I can't just watch him... like this..."_

_"May, right now all you have to do is to make sure you are okay. Strange may be an obnoxious, pompous know-it-all, but he is, actually, a neurosurgeon. If anyone, he will find a way."_

...a bit... further...

_"...rk Industries CTO has not been seen in public for the last two days. The official spokesman for the company says there is nothing to be concerned about and that 'doctor Stark is taking time off for family reasons'. CEO of the company, Virginia Stark, has been noticed once in that time..."_

_"...what money can buy you. Sure he doesn't have problems like us. Having enough cash to throw at any problem..."_

_"...waste of resources trying to investigate the recent claims of financial misconduct in many tech companies..."_

_"...come back!"_

 

He found himself suddenly thrown back into his body, feeling as if he had miscalculated and smashed into a side of a building when swinging across the city. The same body that he had left sitting, held up in Mr Stark's hug, was now swaddled in blankets and cradled to Mr Stark's body, Peter's head carefully lain on the pillow of a muscled shoulder.

"With us?" Mr Stark asked cautiously, resting his cheek against Peter's head.

"He is," doctor Stephen answered breathlessly. The wizard sounded as if he has just run a marathon — sprinting.

"What the fuck was that?"

"I'll tell you when I find out. But it looked awfully close to an astral projection, just not of a kind I've ever experienced. I'll have to ask Wong to help me look for something like this in the books."

Peter sank into Mr Stark's embrace, revelling — just for the moment, just for now — in the security it gave him. Hand was still hurting and the nausea was still keeping his stomach at 'low boil, threatening to go bleurgh at any time', but being held like this, just like this, was a treat he couldn't refuse himself.

"Hey, kiddo."

There was something special in the way Mr Stark addressed him — something... like an additional harmonics.

Like a sound only Peter could hear.

Like...

A kiss to his forehead.

Like a hug.

Like...

"OK, so what now?"

It didn't sound so well. He liked Mr Stark's voice, the way it went all suddenly-soft and quietly-attentive and comfortingly-warm and... But now it was different. There was something sharpish in it, something even belligerent.

And doctor Stephen sounded just...

...sad.

"We can let him rest. Hey, Pete," the wizard perched on the edge of the bed and reached out to him, somehow... careful? "Do you want to go to sleep now?"

He thought about it.

Very seriously.

"No," he managed to whisper. "I can stay awake some more. I..." he didn't know how to explain the need to _be_ there, to stay in control of himself. "Can I get some water?"

A bottle appeared swiftly and soon he was being helped to drink - as both his hands were much too shaky now.

"How are you feeling, buddy?"

He leaned into the safe warmth again.

"Tired, kinda," he explained. "It's just hard to... hard to think. It's like... like when I had my wisdom tooth pulled, or... dunno. It's bad, because, like, I _know_ that it's nothing obvious. It's not broken or... or cut or... But it hurts like it is."

"There is a risk that even if we manage to fix it, you will be experiencing some body image issues," doctor Stephen capped the bottle again. "If your brain is bombarded with these pain signals, but also you can see that the hand is fine, well..."

"It confuses your mind, major time."

"Well, I am confused most of the time," he smiled bleakly at the two men. "I mean, right now I can feel someone holding my elbow."

"W-what?"

It would have been comical under different circumstanced.

"Like, if you hit yourself and want to, kind of, shield that place?" he straightened a bit, trying to free his hands from the cocoon of blankets. "Um. I could show you, but..."

Doctor Stephen quickly peeled the layers off of him and allowed him to move more freely, mumbling things about IVs needing more freedom anyway.

"You know, if you hit your elbow, like, the funny bone, and then you just, like, cover it, like this..." he carefully put his fingers in the exact spots where the weird feeling of a strange touch was lingering. "And I think I can feel like an equal touch here, like..." he blinked, looking down, at his hands. "Like they are... holding it against their chest... And there is... I dunno. More cold around my fingertips. Sorry. It sounds stupid."

"It doesn't," a new voice interrupted them and he saw doctor Stephen's face tense up. "It sounds like a combination of— of _quantum entanglement_ and magic."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going for vacation for 3 weeks, so in that time my ability to post something will depend solely on the availability of electricity. Hurrah for the EU-roaming rules, because at least I won't have problems with network access :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda to the rescue. Somehow.  
> Tony goes full IronDad.  
> Strange gets told off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. I managed to write this a few days ago, but it definitely needed some editing and correction and ironing out the more messy parts. I hope I didn't manage to cut some sentence in two or something like that, but if you notice a place where text goes strangely weird, please let me know.
> 
> Next chapter is all written, but still needs some polishing, but I can hope to have it posted in 2-3 days, tops.
> 
> I'm posting this from a reading room on a camping site by Karlskrona, which is a strangely luxurious thing to have on a camping site, from my experience, but I'm not going to complain!

Mr Stark's hands tightened around him slightly, but Peter managed to turn and face Wanda, who was now standing there, twisting her fingers in anxiety.

"It-it's the idea—" she trailed off, looking away. "Not enough words in English. Sorry. I only see the idea in my mind."

"Quantum entanglement," Mr Stark repeated wryly. "Do you want me to believe that some aspect of magic is somehow ruled by the basic concepts of quantum physics?"

"How did you think it worked? It's pure physics...!"

"It's pure mumbo-jumbo," doctor Stephen grumbled angrily.

"C-can you explain?"

Everyone looked at Peter in surprise.

"Quantum physics?" Mr Stark checked cautiously.

"N-no. I know _that_. Magic."

A pause.

A heartbeat.

Three different heartbeats.

Mr Stark: tired. Slight additional "whoosh" every few beats.

Doctor Stephen: picking up the speed. Annoyed.

Wanda: quick. Like a bird's.

"I..." she glanced quickly at Mr Stark. "I can affect reality... by pushing things that are... connected to each other. At first, I just did it with my full force, with a lot of effort. And it hurt me and it hurt everyone. But then I learnt how to... separate things. So I pushed here," she gestured with her hands. "And things move, there," she pointed away. "I could make a little move and things would change in a place that was linked to where my hand was. When you see the red light, this is the energy going through the link between them."

"So, considering that quantum entanglement is the phenomenon of pairs of particles being linked as to the state, and so that by affecting one we are changing the other, you can make a parallel to how you affect the world - your magic helps you pick the correct particles that will influence whatever you are trying to change?"

"Yes! Things that were one once, but were split, because of... of a cosmic energy impact. Or magic. Or anything. I see them, I see lines between them and I can pull them or push them and... it's like pushing both of them at once."

"Your powers allow you to affect matter on atomic level? Subatomic?"

"Subatomic, I think. Well, I can bend light, and photons are smaller than atoms."

Peter licked his lips, trying to put together magic and quantum physics in the same area of his brain.

"And my-my hand?"

Wanda made a frustrated face.

"It's the other way round? No. The same, but you are not pushing. Someone else is pushing. There are pieces that were split off from... from someone else's pieces? And then, then mixed with yours and you..." she paused and shook her head. "You are feeling the pushing. From somewhere."

"You are saying that Peter got entangled with someone else's hand?" Mr Stark asked, slowly and in the tone that screamed of fake calm.

"That's what I see," she shrugged. "His aura is like— like a mix, and the hand, well, the hand is—"

"Stark, do not indulge her," doctor Stephen barked suddenly. "This doesn't make a whit of sense!"

"Well, she seems to be having _some_ idea, so why not check it out?"

"She is like all these doctors who will promise you salvation with oil and holy water from the Nile - nothing good will ever come from this!"

He felt the hold on his body tighten.

"Something might. Something. She may be able to see something."

"I assure you, Stark, there is nothing to be seen...!"

"That's because _you_ don't want to see it, you stubborn prick!"

"There is _nothing_!"

"Auras are not _nothing_!"

"Yeah, because everyone has a glowy halo around their heads that shows their moods!"

"Says the man using a sparkly portal as a means of transport!"

Peter coughed.

"Wanda?" he asked weakly. "If I feel someone's touch, like here," he squeezed his hand over the same spot. "Does that mean they would feel mine?"

She looked back at him with narrowed eyes.

"They might. But it doesn't mean they will— I'm not sure. We don't even know what happened, well, except for—" she trailed off. "I have to think. I can't even tell you what it... I know what I can _see_."

"And what is it?" Mrs Stark and May stood in the door, watching him, swaddled like a baby and held by Mr Stark oh-so-carefully. "What happened here?"

"Peter managed to hurt himself with the mattress," Mr Stark explained with something like a smile in his voice. "I decided that he is not allowed to lie on the bed by himself until he is better."

"Oh, baby..." May was with them in a flash, sitting next to Mr Stark and taking part of Peter's weight on herself. "How did you manage to do this?"

He felt a hot flush staining his cheeks.

"I tried to fix up the pillows and slipped," he mumbled. "And then the hand hurt _more_ and I just couldn't think and—" he rested his head on her shoulder. "My senses went haywire. I suddenly heard _everything_ in the building. And around us. And... There was a TV station that said that nobody has seen Mr Stark for like ages and they are speculating what happened."

"Vul... Carrion eaters," Mr Stark groaned, tightening his hold on Peter's calves. "They are circling. I'll have to make an appearance."

"They said it was about a family emergency," Peter blurted out before he could stop. "I'm not family. Who told them...?"

Mr Stark glanced, first at him, weirdly and then up at his wife.

Mrs Stark looked the most put-together of everyone in the room, yet still somewhat rumpled and wrinkled. Not the perfectly dressed and coiffed CEO he was used to seeing, by a long stretch.

"I gave that statement to the PR department," she said simply. "And, Peter? You _are_ family. Be so kind as to remember this."

His eyes snapped to her face immediately, such was a power of the calm, cool statement she just made — the way she said it, as if it was an obvious, easy thing...

A hand squeezing his knee brought him back to reality.

"What she said, kiddo. Don't ever doubt it. And, on that note, let's take care of this particular family member, hm? M— Wanda, what is it that you can see?"

The girl — because she couldn't have been that much older than Peter, really, maybe nineteen, maybe not even that — pulled a chair up and sat next to the bed. Her head tilted slightly, she looked around, at the gathered adults.

"Auras show— well, they reflect both the mental well-being and the general character of the person. They have shape, brightness and colour... And the colour shows the, well, the _soul_. Mostly, there are cold and warm auras - with animals and plants going mostly into green and yellow neutrals, apart from some apes and dolphins, who actually have other colours. What I do— I can _see_ them and I can work out what means what. Then I or someone else can fix what is wrong with the person and their aura will show the improvement. You can't _do_ anything with the aura, but it's like—" she shrugged. "Like an x-ray. You can see how things are wrong, fix the person and take another photo and it will show improvement."

"So you are a diagnostician? Like Doctor House from TV?"

Wanda smiled and nodded. It was a strangely sad smile, but it was one.

"Yes, you could say this. I suppose."

Doctor Stephen snorted, but stayed silent.

"So what is— what does Peter's aura look like?" Pepper broke the small lull.

Wanda shook her head, lips tightened into a thin line.

"Bad. Like... There are too many things wrong with it. Normal healthy person, like," she frowned. "Well, let's say Mrs Parker here, they have an aura that is the shape of their own body, slightly larger than them, of stable colour, changing intensity based on what they are thinking of or feeling. Dimmer when they are asleep, brighter when they focus on their work."

"Must be blinding when that person is really working on something. Imagine Shuri's aura...!" Mr Stark sounded genuinely fascinated by the idea.

"Like you have no idea..." Wanda trailed off. "Yours is similar, although it's not as nice and rounded as Mrs Parker's. That's what self-recrimination and doubt does to you, by the way. Also, alcohol usage. It's a good thing you stopped, because _this_ at least heals in time, actually."

He frowned, but stayed focused.

"And Peter?"

The witch swallowed, hard.

"Peter's aura is mostly dim and kind of muddled, which may be the effect of his illness and insufficient rest. I also see what looks like a mass of ungrounded electricity around his right hand, like coloured lights. And there _is_ an additional light over his elbow, purple or, or violet? It's normally a sign of something seriously wrong, wrong with his right hand and elbow— the aura, it looks as if he— well, the aura there is a mark of something broken. If you think about an aura of a broken limb, this is it."

"So... his arm thinks it's broken and in the... that other plane it is, so Peter feels it?"

"No, there is no other 'plane' here. I think that the person whose hand got entangled with Peter's has a broken arm — injured elbow. But there is a mass of overlapping lines all over it and I can't read it very well. But it's concentrating on everything the gauntlet covered, from his fingers to his elbow and partly over that violet mark."

"Is there anything else you can read from it? Maybe—"

"Can we disconnect me from that other person?" Peter managed to interject, finally. "Because if this is hurting me, and it's hurting them, then..."

Wanda bit her lip.

And shrugged.

"We can try. But first, we need a blood relative, though."

Peter felt his breath stuttering.

May stiffened behind him, while Mr Stark's hold on his legs tightened again.

"Not available."

Doctor Stephen looked at Wanda in suspicion and finally took his seat on the other side of the bed, while Mrs Stark had already taken the spot at the foot.

She simply nodded with a small grin.

"There goes one of the bets half of the team has made. Fine. Mrs Parker?"

"Not related," May sighed. "My husband was Peter's actual blood relative - the last one that we know of. Maybe Mary had some siblings— I've never met them, if there were any."

"No, nobody further than parents or siblings will work anyway," Wanda said enigmatically, shook her head and pondered for a moment. "Peter, I will need you to lie down flat, is it possible? Or sit up, but you'd have to do it on your own. I can't have anyone else sitting next to you, to make sure what I'm seeing is clean of any other influence."

He nodded tiredly, leaning into May's hold for a moment.

"Come on, kiddo. Let's get you comfortable. Here, we can bring the back of the bed up, and... what?"

Peter looked at Mr Stark with reproach.

"You didn't show me that the bed could be moved like this," he finally explained.

All the adults around him paused for a moment.

"What? If I knew I had a pilot for the bed, I wouldn't have needed the stupid pillows," he grumbled. "And I wouldn't have fallen and hurt myself and—"

"And gone all astrally-projected away from the building," Mr Stark finished for him. "Sorry, kiddo. I think we forgot, kind of. You were sleeping when we moved you here."

He shrugged, not really looking at all of them.

"Whatever."

"Not whatever," Wanda captured his chin and forced him to look up, straight into her eyes. "What you did then, you touched me. I felt you going by. I _saw_ you. You— I knew there was something going on with you."

Doctor Stephen made a sound, somewhere between a snort and a scoff.

"Don't," the witch glanced over her shoulder. "Don't reject the possibility. The fact that _your_ senses don't perceive something doesn't mean it doesn't exist. You think you have the monopoly on how mind controls matter? Well, you don't. And neither do I. But _I_ keep my eyes open. Don't close yours, _sorcerer_."

There was a moment of silence.

Just a moment.

And Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, sat on his supreme butt back on the chair and stayed there, pale-faced and silent.

Allowing the girl in front of Peter to work without any interruption.

"Where exactly does it hurt?" she asked softly. "Does touching it make it hurt more?"

"Not— no, it— not like touching an injury," he explained, biting his lip. "But like— my muscles are so tense and every time I move it's like pulling everything. And even when I don't really do anything with it, it just— flares up suddenly. And I'm worried that it will—"

"OK. So touching doesn't make it worse as such. What if I do this?"

She laid her hand over his shoulder and slowly, slowly, gradually, pulled it down his arm.

The moment she hit the line where pain ended, Peter saw white.

"...eaction. It's not like I hurt him on purpose, it was just a simple scan!"

"Peter?"

Well, if every contusion and blackout would end with him being hugged by Mr Stark, it may actually be worth it.

Almost.

Not that he would tell anyone. Ever.

"You just shut down when she touched your elbow."

"Wh-what was this?"

"I tried to make a deep scan of your arm. Up from the shoulder to just above the elbow it's not very good, but not very bad. I could see the scars and the burns and things that are still, well, not filled in. But right— here," she poked cautiously with her pointed finger. "Here is the edge of something that kicked me out. And made you faint."

"I don't faint," he grumbled slightly.

"Oh, you do, kiddo. You do."

"Mr Stark!"

"...I think it's the gauntlet. Or rather, the stones, working through the gauntlet."

Everyone fell silent suddenly.

"How come?"

Wanda looked quickly around, at all the people watching her.

"I didn't see Thanos, but you've told me the other gauntlet got burned onto his hand. For Hulk, the gauntlet made by Stark, it tried to eat into him, but then got taken off. For Peter, he, well, he heals, but I think the gauntlet left something in him. Like a trace. And it's visible in his aura. I can't explain it any better, but... I've seen the recordings, when Hulk put the gauntlet on, all these little power lines, the— _peruny_ — lightings? For me, Peter's hand looks like this _now_. Like electricity, sparks. And all around him, he has—" she shook her head. "It looks like a layer on layer on layer of shapes of aura of— It's like three people in there... or four."

"Is it hurting him?"

May sounded so dejected, but Wanda shook her head.

"Like I said, auras only tell you what happens in the body, but they by themselves do not hurt. Why Peter's looks like this though— This will require work. And that's why I needed— Well, a blood relative would be a lot of help right now."

"What would you have done with one, if there had been any?"

"Theoretically? Read their aura. Compare to what Peter has. Find why Peter looks like several different people put together."

There was a moment of waiting, when Mr Stark rubbed his face with both hands.

"Why didn't anyone think about this earlier? In the Embassy? Or even here, when Peter arrived?"

Wanda shot doctor Stephen a _glare_.

"Because a certain someone was not letting me in. Sometimes, if a situation is very bad, I need a moment to touch the person I'm reading—" she trailed off, looking at them with narrowed eyes. "OK, Peter, do you feel well enough to try again? I won't touch the hand anymore, but I will need everyone else to help me analyse what I can see."

He nodded weakly, but leaned on Mr Stark's shoulder for a heartbeat longer than it was strictly necessary.

"You're sure, kiddo?" the man rumbled softly. "Maybe we can ask Stephen to help you to sleep and start again tomorrow?"

Peter _wished_. Peter wanted to be left alone, to be allowed to cry, to be able to just...

He closed his eyes, staving off tears.

Unsuccessfully, apparently.

Because something spurred Mr Stark into action.

"Actually, I'm taking an executive decision. You, out. All of you. Shoo. May, stay. We need to talk. Strange, wait for me, Peter will need you. Whatever else can wait for tomorrow."

"B-but—" he tried protesting, reaching out to Wanda, who was already standing up from the bed.

"No, it's fine," she patted his healthy hand. "You're tired. Stark, I'll be here eight in the morning, sharp. And I will need you and you," she pointed to May and Pepper, "to help me with this. Seriously."

"Mr Stark," he mumbled, but a calloused, warm hand wiped away the moisture staining his cheekbone.

"You're crying, Peter. And I don't want to see you crying anymore, so we are taking a break for today. You are too tired to cope with all this shit right now, but Strange will help you to get a good night's sleep and in the morning, when you are properly rested, Maximoff will come and try her voodoo again."

"But I can...!" he cried weakly. "I so totally can, I can do it today, I can stand a bit more pain, I..."

"Peter."

He bit his lip.

"You. Don't. Have. To."

"But, Mr Stark—!"

"Peter," a harsh kiss to his forehead ended the discussion. "Please. None of us wants to see you in more pain than it's needed. In fact, none of us wants to see you in _any_ kind of pain, but that seems to be impossible right now, so please, let us have at least this. Let us give you a night of rest?"

He tried not to sigh in relief. Not to show how much it meant to him to hear this.

He wasn't five, like Morgan. He was... whatever it was. Sixteen, probably.

It was... Five years and something...

He tried to focus, but it was so nice—and the hand was staying quiet for the moment, just the feeling of ghostly fingers on his arm remained—and he just gave in to the feeling, but, but, how old _was_ he, what was the date, really...?

"Sixteenth of December," Mr Stark answered and only then Peter had noticed he must have been talking aloud all that time, but— but why? Why December?

"We all came back on the twenty-second of June," May answered. "Five years and fifty days after we were snapped away. You've still been in coma back in August, so..."

"So you are sixteen, kiddo. And that means that you're still underage and _so_ , whatever your aunt May says, happens."

"Tony."

"Well, I suppose also 'what Mr Stark says, happens'. And at this point I'm saying little spiderlings should talk to their elders for a moment about serious stuff and then wash their teeth, take a shower if they can, and allow a world-renown wizard-surgeon to get them to sleep."

_Don't ask don't ask don't ask._

"What? What am I not supposed to ask?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, "it's stupid."

"Peter."

"Not you. Me."

"You are not supposed to ask...?"

He pushed up to sit by himself.

"Nothing, okay? I'm just..." he bit his lip. "Just tired. Talking stupid shit. Sorry. But I just want this... I just wish this would go away. And I can't. I'm stupid like this."

"I absolutely forbid you to talk like this about my favourite intern!"

There was that thing about Mr Stark.

When he said stuff like this, Peter couldn't not smile.

He just couldn't.

So he smiled.

"Well then, since we are in agreement on the important point of bedtime for spider-kids, let's proceed to the lower-priority topics. May—" Mr Stark turned to his aunt, who had been watching them with a small smile of her own, keeping suspiciously silent. "I need your feedback on this. Is Peter allowed to call my favourite intern stupid?"

It was quite possible that his hand was ruined forever - whatever it was what was happening to it - and that his aura was fucked up major time due to whatever cosmic rule that decided that Parkers don't get dealt good cards in any game, and that he would never again be able to take to the skies as Spider-Man, but...

But, right here, right now, Peter felt a little bit better.

"No, absolutely. This particular insult is reserved to you and me, Tony. Noone else is allowed to call your favourite - and only - intern stupid."

"You see, kid? Your aunt agrees with me, which means the two most important adults in your life share an opinion. You are outvoted. Not allowed to call yourself stupid. Now, then. Let's proceed. May... Are you OK with Wanda doing this?"

May bit her lip and nodded slowly, looking right at Peter.

"As long as Pete is fine with it," she sighed. "I just— I wish there was something that _I_ could do. I'm a bloody nurse, after all. But it all seems to be way beyond me."

"It seems to be way beyond our resident magical neurologist, so you are in a good company."

"It's not exactly comforting."

Mr Stark sighed and nodded slowly.

"I'm sorry. But if I don't joke, I..."

"You will start screaming. I know, Tony. I'm very familiar with the feeling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see photos I'm taking on this trip, or even just drop me an anonymous note with your opinion about something, visit <https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/>. I post my stories, flower photos, handmade, silly links and I reblog a lot of stuff from many fandoms. I'm happy to discuss anything and everything fandom- or writing-related.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda makes progress.  
> Peter is justifiably anxious.  
> Tony has an anxious babbling attack. Or two.  
> And a new hope dawns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm on a camping site near Stockholm, no wifi (unlike the one by Karlskrona), but we have electricity, so I can work. And the wonderful innovation of EU roaming (I have 1gb free of charge!) allows me to post this today! Yay!  
> However, I'm now 100% if I managed to weed out all the issues this chapter had so please, PLEASE PLEASE if you see something weird, like a chopped-off sentence or weird POV change or whatyever else that makes no sense, please let me know in the comments, I'll fix it.

Peter looked slightly better after a night rest courtesy of doctor Stephen Strange. It didn't really say much, since he was still wan and washed out and... well, things could be said about his eyes, but Tony decided not to focus on that too much. It was much better to focus on Wanda, who at least seemed to be having some kind of idea what to do.

A direction.

He wished _he_ had some idea what _he_ could do.

Standing outside of Peter's room as a nurse helped him to get changed into fresh clothes after the shower, he fretted.

"You can help," the young witch patted his shoulder and he suppressed a shiver. She wasn't supposed to read their minds anymore, but how was he supposed to be sure? "He likes you. He depends on you. He..." she paused, face tense. "He looks up to you."

"But I failed him."

"He doesn't think so. He thinks he is being like you, in doing that," she jerked her head towards Peter's door.

"I'm a mess," he hissed. "I'm... if you had to pick role models, I should not even be in the same room as candidates. Strange, yes. Wilson, obviously. Banner, definitely. Me? I'm a catastrophe. A walking disaster. A supposedly recovered alcoholic with so many issues that it makes Hulk seem like a nice alternative."

"Strange...? I'd rather he didn't. Of the other two, Peter looks up to Banner, a lot. But this is not important right now, Stark. And neither is your mid-life crisis or whatever it is that you are going through, sorry. Peter is important. And Peter needs _you_. So, you have to focus."

He breathed in and held the air for a moment.

Nodded.

"OK. What do you need?"

"Aura reading works fine if I just see the person's own aura. The problem I see is that Peter is like... like covered with afterimages. Part of it is his enhancement, but he has had it for... how long?"

"Two years. Well, two years of his life."

"And he has no problems with it? Like... adjusting, or..." she shrugged. "Like, supersoldiers who were given the serum, they sometimes have heart problems. Because the body grows wrong."

"No, at least as far as I know. He has normal muscle volume for his age, just much denser than a basic human, but the last time we checked, his cardiovascular system was dealing fine with it."

"So aura would not be showing issues here. That means there is something _else_ wrong. So what I need is a..." Wanda tapped her fingers on the table, thinking. "A baseline. Something to compare him to. We don't have a blood relative available, but if I can get something, anything he used a lot before the snap, if you have his hairbrush or a favourite shirt, or whatever else that was _not_ washed — sorry — it will carry the shade of his aura on it. Just as long as he didn't use it _after_ coming back."

"Seriously? An unwashed shirt?"

"Oh, you have no idea. But hairbrush will be the best, it will have his hair on it, and they are actual pieces of him, so they will work nicely."

Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose to stave off the oncoming headache.

"What about blood? Or other tissue samples?"

Wanda grimaced, obviously revolted, but her face smoothed quickly.

"Blood will be fine, but how come...?"

"Kid gets hurt a lot," he grunted. "We have everyone's blood stored - well, everyone who had lived here long enough - including mine and Pepper's. Peter has a great healing factor, but still, there is always a chance blood loss will be high enough to warrant a transfusion. Neither of us can risk using normal supply — Peter's blood doesn't register as human anymore, so we can't be sure, but—"

She interrupted his stumbling explanation with a wave of hand.

"I see. Blood. Yes, blood is fine. Even just a small vial will give me a great base for this."

He nodded towards the labs and they strode down the corridor tiredly.

"I wonder why Strange didn't check this aura thing when they were still at the Embassy," he grumbled, half to himself. "Because I feel like we are suddenly discovering a completely new world of options. What will be next, pixie dust? Clapping if we believe? Ent-draughts? Kingsfoil? Shit, I hate this. We can't live like this. Because if what you are doing can't help, then what, we still can't give up searching, because there may be another outlandish solution around the corner, and that means even if we _know_ we can't do anything for him right now, we will still be giving him and May false hope that— that there is something we can do— and he trusts me, he bloody trusts me, he trusts me to find a solution, and I can't, I can't, because it's all so fucking weird and for fuck's sake, the kid was hurt by bloody magic, combined with my nanites and—"

He felt someone's hand on his neck and noticed he was sitting on one of the low benches, shaking.

"Stark, you have to calm down," Wanda's voice sounded slightly shaky. "He depends on you, yes. But you are no use to anyone until you manage to get a grip. And Strange didn't check Peter's aura because he doesn't believe in the information he can find there. He is... It's like he is still distancing himself. He knows his school of magic, we can call it. The philosophy it follows, the methods, the..." she shrugged. "He sticks to them. He is great in that - analytical magic is not for everyone - but it stiffens him. Makes him too rigid. Too stuck."

"And you are?"

"Not stuck. I work on intuition. He is like a scientist of magic. I wasn't taught by anyone, but I know things that the Stone had left in me. Aura reading is one of them. If someone doesn't have that... that proper _spirit_ , the mindset, they will see nothing. Even if they know where to look. Now, where is that blood?"

 

####

 

There were in fact eight litres of Peter's blood in the storage, plus a number of smaller vials taken for testing at various times, so Wanda appropriated one that hadn't been processed - from just before the snap. It would not have been viable as a laboratory sample, but still it was a biological they were studying, especially Banner.

"What are you getting out of this?"

Wanda held the vial cautiously.

"The essence of the boy," she said softly. "Wait, I can show you, actually. Come here."

He turned back to the witch and looked at the container she was holding.

"Still seeing just... ooh."

Indeed, ooh.

The vial was surrounded by an even halo of golden-red light.

"His aura is..."

"In the colours of your armour. Don't question it, I've learnt not to. The reasons behind aura colours are... Complicated. Some of it is actually very intuitive - warm colours mean emotion-oriented person, cold tones are more for people driven by logic, but the exact shades are not so easily explained."

They were silent for a moment and then Wanda rolled her eyes.

"Yours is pale, reddish gold."

He nodded silently. He would work it out later.

"Your wife's hair."

Bloody witch.

"Now, the boy. The aura of this vial is what he should look like. Gold closer to him, red on the outside. Kind of a gradient. What I saw on him is very much _not_ this. Maybe it's mixed with something, or overlayed, or— well, there are many reasons, up to and including his current state of mind and spirit, that can affect him and make his aura that dim. I know that what his aura shows is not natural, but knowing what it's supposed to be will help. If I can, aura-ly speaking, remove what _should be_ from what I am seeing, I may have a chance to see what was added. What is polluting him."

Grimly, in silence, they walked back to the patient rooms.

"It would have been easier if he was still asleep," she sighed. "But maybe I can get him to help with this, partially."

"Won't it be too taxing for him?"

She shrugged.

"We need to get rid of that thing stuck on his hand. Then we can worry about taxing or not."

 Peter's room was still quiet and dark, the boy - young man - sitting up, slowly eating breakfast with his left hand, while the big StarkPad displayed some kind of schematics in front of him.

"Kid, what are you..."

Peter looked up at them, face drawn and tense.

"Friday, simulation off."

Still, Tony managed to see what the blueprint was for. A forearm prosthesis for above-the-elbow amputees.

He sucked in a shuddering breath.

"Peter..."

"Don't," the boy cut him off. "I have to consider options. Some options. Or I will go mad. I have to... I have to work on something. I need a focus. I can focus on this. Even if I won't need it, someone else might. So—" he swallowed and looked up at them. "What now?"

Tony moved the over-bed table to the side and sat on the edge of the mattress.

"Wanda knows what your aura is supposed to look like and she wants to to some analysis of what she _can_ see right now, of you. We will need you to lie down and just wait until she is done. May and Pepper will join us, because Wanda thinks they can help. Is there— would you like anyone else to be here?"

"Doctor Stephen," Peter answered immediately. "I don't mean anything against Wanda, but he has this thing that he can make me go to sleep, like, immediately? Just in case something, dunno, goes wrong? And—" he inhaled and kept it like that for a moment. "If something happens, he can keep me restrained. Because my strength is coming back — but I can't control it, not like normally. I've already broken three forks since this morning, and if it goes crazy like my senses, I don't know what I'll do, so I don't want to hurt any of you, in case I react—"

He drew the shaking boy into a tight hug.

 

####

 

Peter looked slightly resigned by the time everyone gathered. The initial excitement brought on by a chance for a treatment had faded away, leaving him again weakened, pale and somewhat impatient about the proceedings around him.

"So what now?"

Even Peter's voice betrayed his general exhaustion with the world at large.

Tony was sitting next to the boy, watching Wanda attentively and taking an occasional look at Peter's vitals on the monitors, while there was in fact nothing he wanted more than to pull the boy closer and not let him go. There had to be some better way of doing this — dealing with Peter's illness — than asking a half-baked, Stone-enhanced witch to analyse his bloody aura...!

"Straighten that hand away from your body, carefully. And, everyone else, move away. I need to have the minimum of interference. What I see on Peter is bad enough, so I'd rather be sure I'm seeing _only_ him."

Tony squeezed Peter's hand for the last time and moved the chair back, leaving the kid alone on the wide bed, looking more like a toddler in his parents' bed than a teenager in a hospital. He dearly wished he could hold the boy for a few moments more — to reassure both Peter and himself that everything would be _just fine_ , once they got this thing done and dealt with... But he knew that the sooner they started, the sooner they would be actually done. Or at least done with this particular line of reasoning. Something needed to be accomplished today, damn it.

Wanda sighed and looked around, meeting their eyes, one by one.

"I will show you what I see and explain what I understand of it, and then you can tell me what you see... And if you can maybe think of some better answers."

May and Pepper sat on the other side of the bed, both looking at each other with obvious doubts, while Strange hovered by the door.

"Kill the lights, Friday."

And the show began.

"What is this, fireflies?"

"Stop making fun, Stark, and focus. Everyone should, because this will need your input. From all of you. Now, I am removing from Peter's general image his own aura, which should leave us with _some_ kind of answers. I count on the four of you to help me analyse it before the mother of all migraines takes me out of the equation. Because this, on his right hand? It's eating into my eyes."

They stood to the side and watched as a very serious girl with light in her eyes waved her hands around the very sick boy on the bed.

He had to admit, if what Wanda was replicating was in fact what she was seeing in that other sense she had, it was... weird. The blood sample vial, as he had seen, had been burning steady gold and red, a healthy, stable kind of shine. The boy... was not.

Most of Peter was in fact set in almost-darkness. His body was mainly illuminated by a faint, reddish-brownish glow. It looked like a contour made of small, barely visible light dots (yes, he had to admit, his joke about fireflies might have been too lighthearted for that moment, but there _was_ a rather strong resemblance!). There was a slight, unevenly pulsing spot right over his heart and he knew the moment Pepper noticed the uncanny way it resembled the location of his old arc reactor. His legs were barely a glimmer, a shade of a faint glowy line where his body lain stretched, a light version of the classic chalk body contour... No. He was not allowing his brain to go there.

Peter's head was hard to look at - the right side of the aura, just over where the scars were, was dented and pitted with black, pin-point dots, like poppy seeds. His left side however matched his right hand - crackling with unused energy like a cartoonish kind of thunderbolt. It hurt to look at the projection, so probably Wanda's claim about the worst migraine ever was not that far removed from the truth.

"Now, what I need to do is to remove himself. His own aura is red and gold, so... This."

And the room was suddenly awash with much colder shades of light. Weak blues danced in a two-tone gradient around Peter's prone form - apart from the arm and the head, where the ugly crackle of conflicting energies still persisted.

"What?" Pepper took a step forward. "What was..."

"Aura colours. Cancelling each other out. Both dim, because both entities are very weak - Peter, because he is now at a very low level of energy and... something else. Also nearly as badly off."

"Remove Kree influence," Tony suddenly found his voice. "Danvers kept him alive with her blood, and if you say blood itself may carry aura signature, or whatever we call it, and the very fact that we used it on him may be affecting him long term, but we already know it is not _this_..."

He stifled the need to blabber very carefully, his eyes suddenly meeting Peter's, wide and scared, somehow illuminated unhealthily by the aura around him.

"Do you have a sample of Kree blood then?" Wanda asked tiredly, knuckling her eyes. Probably the predicted migraine was approaching _fast_.

A tiny vial was produced from the lab, where a few specialists had been working on breaking the substance down into its component parts in order to reproduce it, just like normal human blood, from synthetics. As the progress achieved was not significant, the analysts in the labs were not _very_ eager to part with any sample of the original thing, but they finally relented when Wanda promised to only _look_ at it, not use it for any purpose that could potentially render it no longer viable.

"Can you work from that amount?" he asked as they waited for her to familiarise herself with the Kree tissues and their 'feel'. And as he thought about it, he really hoped it was the last time he had to consider someone looking at a blood sample with such curiosity on their face. Blood in the labs was OK. Blood being analysed for traces of aura colours... Weird.

"Yes. Very distinct kind of blue. Very... very cold. I wonder how Captain Danvers—" she shook her head. "Nevermind. I will ask her one day. Yes, I can work with this."

And soon they were back in Peter's room (the boy had been convinced to eat something, judging by the newly emptied plates on the side table), Wanda repeated the earlier operations and got to the point where they had stopped previously.

"Now, Peter's own aura removed, known injuries taken into account, and... off with the Kree aura."

With a gesture, the layer of blueness was stripped.

Pale, barely visible, colourless light remained.

"What has a white aura?" Strange asked quietly, standing up from the chair he had taken, by the door. "Warms for emotion, colds for logic— Plants are what, yellow?"

"You've been reading on this...? Plants and animals are mainly green and yellow. There is specific symbolism behind it. Humans, well, it depends on the character, but nobody has pure white," the witch strolled around the light show on the bed. "White denotes pure intellect, but never shows up alone—" she trailed off.

"His forehead," Strange pointed out quickly. "What is this shape?"

"Pure intellect?" Peter asked softly. "Like... like a computer? And what do I have on my forehead?" he raised his left hand to touch it, as if trying to grasp at the lights all around him. "What is it?"

"Kind of a rhombus," May provided uncertainly. "I can barely see it under these electric lines, but it's there."

"Wanda—" Pepper stifled a sob with her fist. "You've said it yourself, more than one person in the same place— what if—"

Tony managed to catch Wanda before she tripped over her own feet as she jerked back uncontrollably, covering her face with both hands.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is brave, Wanda is nervous, Tony hates magic and Morgan is cute.  
> Situation normal.  
> Also, all fucked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter count went up to 16, because the next one unexpectedly grew in writing (yeah, sure, unexpectedly). But. Ch 14 and 15 are WRITTEN and edited up to 90%, I think, and 16 (the epilogue) is written and needs to be fully re-read and edited.  
> So, that's it, the rest of the story should be posted over the next 2 weeks.

Tony helped the shaking young witch to a cot strategically placed by the wall and handed her over to Pepper, who seemed much better qualified to deal with the girl. He, in turn, moved to the bed and pulled Peter into a tight hug again, grounding himself on the good, material sensation of the kid clinging to him. Wanda had seen the auras as she needed, thank-you-very-much, nobody was going to stop him from comforting his kid right then and there.

And Peter, in turn, rested his cheek on Tony's shoulder with a weary sigh.

Obviously, both of them needed it.

"Peter..." he began, but found himself at a loss of what to say in such a situation, so he resorted to pressing a kiss to the top of Peter's head — finally, at least this was going well, as it seemed that short, soft fuzz of new hair was starting to cover the parts where Peter's curls had been burned off or repeatedly had to be shaved for EEG in the weeks Peter had spent in Shuri's care.

"Mr Stark, what is going on...?" came the boy's tired whisper. He only tightened the hold slightly, rocking them to and fro in what he hoped was a calming fashion.

Hugs were needed. Hugs were good. He had to remember to provide the kid with abundance of them. Because — who would have guessed — astonishingly self-sufficient vigilante teens needed hugs. Just as much as genius-billionaire- _slightly-_ greying (yet still dashingly handsome) superheroes did.

Obviously, he couldn't just _schedule_ the hugs - and it wouldn't do to ask Friday to remind him to hug the boy as often as it was physically possible - but he would definitely keep in his mind the feelings that came with the sensation of having Peter so close, so hopefully he would not hesitate the next time the kid needed someone to comfort him just like he did right now. Or, in fact, anytime over the coming days, because it sure sounded like the reality was going to suck, major time.

If he had to express a preference, he would opt for spending the next few weeks — months — holding Peter close to himself with one hand and Morgan with the other. That would certainly give all three of them just the right amount of closeness. He could allow sometimes handing Morgan over to Pepper and allowing May a few minutes with her nephew.

Probably.

If they asked nicely.

Peter leaned on him heavily — or as heavily as a seriously underfed kid with seriously overactive metabolism could.

"Wanda, you said — auras of more people — but aura itself is not a thing, right? It doesn't show when there is nothing behind it. There has to be a spirit or character or _something_ that affects aura, so— Is it really possible for more than one person to exist and survive within the same— container?" his voice was weird and shaky in his own ears.

Strange's eyes widened as he looked from Wanda to Peter, but he remained silent.

"Vision," Pepper hugged Wanda's trembling form fiercely, as the girl uttered brokenly, quietly — suddenly more like herself as Tony knew her than the self-assured, tough and fiery witch that had terrorised him and Strange into giving her access to Peter. "That's Vision's aura. Pure intellect. That's— That's Vision."

"If I accept that auras are something more than just a— fever dream. That it is technically possible to make a reasonable use of them—" the wizard uttered slowly. "And I'm still not completely sold on this, but I admit, there is some, well, some sense in this — Vision is your old AI, the embodiment of a complex algorithm. That would explain the aura being abnormal, if you can call it so — AIs normally don't get bodies, so people, even ones like Miss Maximoff here, rarely have a chance to see their auras...!"

 _Well, if anyone had ever seen an aura of and AI, it was definitely Wanda,_ Tony sighed to himself. The girl must have taken a peek at her boyfriend's aura at some point, at least once...!

"So we have found the culprit," he summarised slowly, his free hand rubbing the back of Peter's neck and head in an attempt at calming the shaking boy. "Like Wanda said — the gauntlet has left traces of the stones in Peter. Since she and Vision were connected to the Mind Stone, for one, she may see what the gauntlet had done to Peter so much better, or, or more clearly, than anyone else, since she has been affected directly by one of the stones as such— and also, it's, well, remotely possible that Vision is piggybacking on Peter— And again, she and Vision were— are connected to the same stone, so there may be some kind of, of, I don't know, affinity—"

"I should be the first to quote the well-known phrase about more things in heaven and earth, I suppose. I'm—" the sorcerer looked as if he was pained by what he had to say, "I'm not questioning Miss Maximoff's ability to see the traces — as she had visualised them for us, they make sense. Surprisingly for me. We can use them as a diagnostic method. Still, even then, we have to prepare ourselves — Peter especially — for a prolonged unpleasantness of the coming weeks. The problem is," Strange licked his lips and looked at them, his pale eyes boring into Tony's, "the problem is finding what the other Stones left behind. Time Stone's remnants should be very easy to identify, I suppose. Since I've been using it for so long, I'm fairly sure that I can isolate the traces and they should obey me. If not, Wong will advise us on how to extract them. I'll let him know we need his support on this, right now. He may help us to analyse this from a new angle."

"And we have to hurry— It's not like the magic is _done_ , finished with whatever it was— is doing to Peter," Wanda interjected in a choked voice. "When I look at the aura — it does look the same as what showed when doctor Banner put the gauntlet on — it was on the recordings — which means the stones are _still working_ , they are active. Whatever happened, it's still happening. It's hurting him actively, and going by his moods and— the magic has poisoned him, on the level of the soul. We—"

"Soul," Pepper straightened. "Soul Stone."

_Nat._

Tony shook his head, chasing away the flash of empty hope, and hugged Peter closer, trying to infuse the boy with warmth of his own body.

"No. Step by step. Thanos got the Mind Stone last, so I think it should be first. Does it make sense? I have no idea. But I feel it does," he inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself down. He couldn't afford to go all emotional over this, not when the life and mental stability of _his kid_ was at stake. And, in a way, the very existence of his _other_ child... "So, Vision. Can we extract Vision from Peter? Because even removing one additional entity should make it easier for him, right? What does it really do to him, to have these mixed auras inside?"

"It's not like this, Tony," May interrupted, glancing at Wanda. "Remember what she said — It's more the case of the auras telling us something else is wrong. These light effects — the weird lines and everything that looks like it's dimming Peter's own aura — are the outcome of something. But of what?"

"In this case, the AI — Vision — may be inert or may be parasitically feeding off Peter, weighing him down, after a fashion. If I understand correctly, his body is still in Wakanda, but without the Stone it cannot be correctly—"

"It's in New York," Wanda whispered and Strange fell silent immediately, watching her attentively. "Shuri brought it over for— for me. We just hadn't managed to get to think of the actual funeral yet. I couldn't—"

"It may sound morbid, but this might just work," Strange grimaced, stretching his back. "The shell was made of vibranium, if I remember correctly, so, barring the lack of the Stone itself, it should be relatively easy to fix, especially if we have access to the equipment that had created it in the first place. Please place the call to the princess. I will bring him over the moment she lets us know he is available and we will see if Stark and Banner can patch the body up enough to hope we can reload the consciousness from Peter into the other carrier."

 _If we find out how_ , hang unsaid in the air between them.

A call to Helen Cho seemed to be in order.

And one to Bruce.

 

####

 

Banner had hidden from the public eye in the Sanctum, which meant he was on hand when Strange decided to apply to him for consultation and was quite willing to help. Having him in the Tower, serving as another pair of eyes and a brain to analyse Wanda's findings was a definite relief, but he also served as a reference for Wanda to check the gauntlet's influence on a living organism.

Which in case of the Hulk was, at this point, nothing more than pale, large-surface scarring, the usual kind left after deep burns. According to Wanda, there was nothing showing in Banner's (or Hulk's) aura that would even hint at the same kind of deeper injury that Peter had sustained.

"The Stones did a different thing to each of us," Bruce sounded, as usual, reserved but quite certain, as he went through the analysis and observations Strange and Wanda had made. "It may have depended on the tech behind the gauntlet, since the one Peter and I used was different from Thanos' original one, but also on our personal characteristics, since the two of us have sustained a vastly different types of injuries, despite having used the same exact gauntlet. In case of Thanos, the whole thing was burned into his arm, but we don't know if it was already when he put it on — although if my memory serves, you still had a chance to pull it off him at the time — or when the last stone connected, or when he snapped his fingers — and which time. In my case, well, the big green guy is very protective. He rejected the gauntlet once it started to hurt me too much and that's probably why my burns may be rather ugly, but the injuries did not spread as far as Peter's did. Peter, however... Peter is the one with the weakest defences of the three of us. His regenerative factor is through the roof and that's how his body itself is nearly healed now, but his defences are wimpy. Comparatively, say, if someone had shot Thanos, he would have been wounded, but not very deeply - but it could potentially smart for ages. If someone shot me, well, the big guy was known to catch bullets in his teeth and spit them out, and that was when _I_ was the one shooting... If someone shot Peter, he would be injured just like a standard human, be at a risk of bleeding out and then his body would heal around the bullet, if given time. Which would of course lead to a variety of complications down the road."

"Which pairs with what Miss Maximoff is reporting and what I can now see, too, if in a different manner than she does. The traces of the stones seem to be ingrown in Peter's hand, and a kind of reflection, or echo of them, shows on the left hemisphere of his brain," Strange provided quietly. "In your case, your body sustained certain damage, but it is healing — scars are being slowly reabsorbed — and once healed, you will be fine — you are mostly fine now, already. Peter, however—"

"May I see him?"

Strange glanced at Tony.

"Yeah," he nodded at Banner and pointed to the right door. "Morgan is probably in there, so we can rescue him from her tender mercies and you'll be able to see for yourself. If you can work anything out, well, we will be having a neurologist sorcerer, a witch and a radiation physicist working on him, and everyone will surely agree that this sounds like an opening to a rather lousy joke..."

 

####

 

Comparing Bruce's and Peter's injuries made the ones sustained by the boy even more jarring. While the burns on Bruce's arm were deep, they were mostly limited to the exact area covered by the gauntlet and wherever the power discharges reached when the stones connected. Peter's burns - now vivid pink scars - went up his arm, over his shoulder, all around his head and up to the corners of his eyes. Bruce, despite discomfort, was up and about a few days after the snap, if using a sling to support the overworked joints and cover the most egregious burns. Peter— well, they knew how it worked out for Peter, didn't they.

One good outcome of the day was that Peter, shaken a bit by the revelation of having Vision somehow attached to him and after a long, heartfelt talk with May and promised to stopp trying to play brave in front of the adults (but he was intent on keeping the appearances when Morgan was present). He had also finally admitted how long it was exactly that he had been feeling the weird "ghostly" touch (six days before Shuri's doctors discharged him into Tony's care). And last, he explained exactly what the supposed painkiller that had worked on him looked like and Shuri had delivered a sample for Strange's perusal, leading to a prolonged argument between Strange and the doctor who had administered it, mostly centred on the proper documentation, administrative procedure and careful logging of substances used on minors without their guardians' approval.

Also, to identification of the one specific Wakandan drug that made it possible for Peter to spend some (limited) time in less pain without Strange's intervention, which came as a relief to everyone involved.

"I was starting to be concerned for his future body image," the neurologist confessed to Tony while they watched Peter eating his lunch with Morgan, the boy finally not tortured by the crippling fear of using his right hand for anything. "Swinging from extreme pain experienced in a limb that is, on the surface, perfectly sound, to his brain being tricked into believing that said limb doesn't exist was not a healthy solution. I've seen plenty of patients who came out of their neurological treatment with a variety of issues in that area, including prolonged feeling of 'strangeness' of their own limbs, and don't you smirk at me, Stark, and some even ending up in psychotherapy once it became unmanageable for them to live in a body they didn't perceive as theirs. When you are certain your hand should be two inches longer than it is, you can still safely be, say, a computer system analyst, but it's pretty hard on a violin player."

"Or on a web-slinging urban superhero," Tony sighed. "We can only hope this drug doesn't have any detrimental side effects."

"Well, they give this to the Black Panther when he gets hurt, so, for one, we can hope for it not to mess with Peter's senses and, two, we can hopefully count on it not being lethal and three, also hopefully, it will not be metabolised as quickly as standard analgesics."

"From what Peter reported, last time it worked for an entire afternoon, at least until he fell asleep, so it should be enough for today at least— which reminds me, have you managed to work out what the hell did that idiot say to my kid to freak him out so much?"

Strange sighed and shook his head, rubbing his eyes.

"He said exactly what Peter reported - that he hoped there will be no need for another one - but he didn't take into account the sensibility of a modern teenager. He wanted to say that he hoped Peter would be better soon, and your overly touchy kid took is as a suggestion he should be less whiny. And it had the effect we saw. I hope that from now on everyone will use much plainer language around that boy, or we will be having a grand time rescuing him from misfortunes that he places himself in, quite unwittingly, in an attempt to be more heroic than expected from a medium-sized teen these days. Even a supercharged one."

 

####

 

They slowly wandered in the general direction of Peter's room once doctor Cho reported the restoration of Vision's shell to be finished and after Peter was done with his (half-liquid) dinner. Everyone was quite happy to hear that, in fact, the painkiller delivered from Shuri's lab was still working, as evidenced by Peter's easy smile when he helped Morgan with the last pieces to be added to her newest LEGO construction.

"See, Daddy, Petey helped me with this big truck you said was too complicated for me," his daughter announced happily. "And we put in the engine and the remote controller and everything."

He cocked an eyebrow at Peter at the 'we' claim, but the boy just shrugged and smiled at Morgan's bowed head. The children cleaned up the remaining 'spare' pieces and boxed them up carefully, which showed the influence Peter already had on Morgan — she had always been more of a 'tear the box to shreds' school of opening new LEGO sets, while Peter's approach was more methodical. If Tony's memory served, his room at May's contained a small stack of well-preserved boxes, set in the corner on one of the shelves. If Tony was to guess, he'd bet Peter had all his loose pieces sorted in ziplock bags or tackle boxes or whatever kids used to manage small items these days.

"It's a good look for him," May whispered as Pepper urged Morgan to pick up her crayons, drawing paper, schoolbooks and all other items that had miraculously migrated to 'Petey's' room over the long afternoon.

"Hm?" he didn't even turn, watching the kids interact, greedily recording in his memory what it felt like to see them like this, in quiet domesticity. For once, Peter didn't seem like a kid fighting for his life and Morgan was obeying her parents' orders without question, cleaning up after the time spent with him. The feeling of idyll was at hitherto-unknown levels.

If only he could bottle the essence of this!

"The 'big brother' thing. Can't you see? He's so totally whipped... She could ask him to bring her a star and he would try his hardest..."

"Don't even scare me, I know what happens when he tries hard enough..." he mumbled.

"Maguna, it's time to let Peter rest a bit," Tony gathered her carefully, trying not to get stabbed by the car she was hugging so fiercely. "He needs lots and lots of rest and quiet to get better, you know."

"But can I come back tomorrow?" she pulled the Saddest Face Possible, looking up at him.

"After you are done with your lessons, certainly. But don't even try to mention skipping school, young lady. It's Monday and..."

"But I wanted to spend my day with Petey...!" she protested weakly. "He isn't going to school!"

"But I will, as soon as I'm better," Peter assured her. "And you should go, it wouldn't do to miss something important. I will anyway be sleeping all day and when you are back, you can pick a game for us to play."

"Ticket to Ride?"

"Bring the box and we'll find a way to set it up here."

"Okay..." she sniffed. "But I'm not going to be _happy_ about it!"

"Duly noted," Tony patted her back. "Now, time for your supper, Maguna. Upstairs we go, mommy is waiting."

 

####

 

They all gathered — minus Pepper but with the addition of Wong and Banner — around Peter's bed again.

At least now the boy was much more relaxed and at ease than he had been in the morning.

Wanda, however, was not.

She had spent half of the afternoon coaching a sceptic — Strange — in the correct approach to seeing the auras and half of it with Banner, explaining what it was exactly that she had seen and walking him through her observations and conclusions. She had not, what was obvious, gotten any calmer because of it. Not at all.

Her hands were still shaky, her lips were bearing the signs of being bitten, her nails were chewed down to the quick.

What it made her was, incongruously, more talkative. With a stutter.

"W-we need to find a way to knock Vis out of Peter. If it's really Vis," she swallowed and took a shuddering breath. "If it's really, truly, actually _V-vis_ , we need to take him out. He is somehow connected to Peter through the stone, but I can't see any way of getting them separated."

"What about that pushing thing?"

Everyone turned towards Peter in surprised silence.

The kid had been rather silent on the exact details of his own treatment — mostly because both Strange and Maximoff has a lot to say and because a sixteen-year-old would not know much about neither neurology nor weird mystical magical whatevers.

"What pushing thing?"

Peter sat up and nodded towards Banner.

"The person that had the Time Stone. You wrote in your report that she did something - she pushed you out of your Smart Hulk form, talked to you, as you— What, I got Friday to find me the report of the whole thing, when I woke up! I had to understand how this all happened— Nobody ever reads these reports, or what?"

"I do," Bruce smiled kindly. "And yes, the Ancient One pushed me, as me, out of my body. The body went to sleep and I could walk about and talk to her— them— normally, despite being kind of incorporeal. So you think we could do the same?"

Peter shrugged.

"So if the Ancient One could do this, doctor Stephen probably can, too, right?"

Strange frowned and exchanged a glance with Wong.

"Yes, rather definitely—" he trailed off. "Yes, definitely. But I'm not sure how it would work here, if Vision is not 'conscious', but—"

"You push them, I'll separate them," Wong offered tersely. "Miss witch here will help me to make sure I get the right guy... Just kidding. But someone to assist in explaining to the soul of an AI why it has to get back into his old vibranium body might be very much needed."

The cot by the wall was now occupied by Vision's shell, mended and carefully patched up by the cooperative of Helen Cho and Shuri, who had delivered some vibranium needed for the missing segments. The empty spot in the middle of his forehead still marked the casing for the Stone, but would be filled in with some other energy focus, created by Shuri and powered by Wanda. Much less mighty than the Stone, but hopefully strong enough for Vision to be sustained.

Looking at Wanda, he couldn't even begin to understand what she felt, watching her lover's still body laid out like that on the hospital cot. She was pale, which contrasted harshly with her red hair and shirt and made her freckles stand out even more than normally. Her hands were shaking and she was, if he was interpreting it correctly, on the verge of crying.

Not a very good condition for someone who was supposed to be doing complex magic involving souls of two people rather important to everyone gathered in the room.

"Okay," he clapped lightly. "Now, Strange pushes them out, Wong catches Vis, Wanda convinces Vis to cooperate and then...?"

"Then we try to put Vision where he belongs," Strange shook his head. "Hopefully it will work. Miss Maximoff, please do whatever you can to feed the shell with your energy. You share the common root, so it may help to convince him to move over— transfer. He should be presented with a body that is more attractive — better known to him, more comfortable — than Peter's. A lot of this happens on less than conscious levels and even an AI may be affected by, as Stark called it, _affinity_."

Wanda nodded choppily and stood by Vision's cot, one hand on his sternum, another raised slightly, red energy coiling slowly between her fingers. Wong, next to her, was watching her with attention, eyes squinting and lips moving slowly, in a quiet prayer - or a spell.

Strange positioned himself on the other side of Peter's bed and was rolling up his sleeves, while the Cloak fluttered behind him.

And then.

A gesture.

A push.

A sudden light.

Peter's body going all limp in the bed and—

— Vision twirling in place next to where Wong was holding his arms open, as if catching a ball

— Peter's suddenly insubstantial form turning around to look at

— someone's — black skinsuit and shockingly blonde hair — pale and foggy reflection flickering in and out where they were kneeling, their arm bent at an unnatural angle, overlaying Peter's corporeal arm

— Wanda's power pouring into Vision's shell body, making it glow with sudden influx of energy

 

——

 

Vis turned again, watching them all in surprise, but his focus was immediately on Wanda and his actual body.

He looked down.

She looked up.

She reached up.

Slowly, slowly, the soul of an AI drifted closer to her, catching her hands with his.

And sighed.

And disappeared.

The body spasmed.

 

——

 

Bruce pushed between the bed and May and stopped, his arm outstretched towards the wispy form shaking on the floor by the bed.

She looked back at them, twisting her spine at an impossible angle.

Her lips moved.

 

——

 

Peter's astral projection seemed to be the calmest of the three, staring at the pandemonium of grownups around him in tired acceptance. Finally, he smiled at Tony and stepped towards him.

And something yanked him back.

There was a thin, gossamer orange rope/link/thread between his right hand and _his_ right hand and the right hand of the third apparition.

And it was contracting.

Pulling Peter's projection closer and closer towards his body - and the other soul.

Wong turned, hopelessly, uselessly reaching towards Peter, who slipped — if a ghost could slip — and stumbled and _smashed_ into the kneeling form, and back into his body, which straightened, tensed and jerked under the invisible impact.

And laid still, in the middle of the room, surrounded by helpless adults.

Tony's feelings regarding magic, astral projections and mysticism veered sharply towards honest, determined hate.

 

####

 

It turned out that although astral projections were not the same as auras and some things could not be actually mended without an Infinity Stone, if you put together a wizard, an experienced medical researcher, a princess and a very determined witch, one can produce wondrous results. Vision was bleary, shaken and operating at much less than his normal level of power, but alive - as alive as he could, at least. There was a small, dim glimmer of the Mind Stone's light in the middle of his forehead and it (and thus, Vision himself) was getting stronger with every minute of sustained physical closeness with Wanda. Wanda was definitely not protesting. Quite to the contrary. Wong and Shuri went with them to oversee the stability of the transfer, while Strange stayed to check on Peter, accompanied by Bruce and Helen Cho, who had declared herself to be of more use with a superpowered teen than with Vision.

By the time they ensured that whatever the additional apparition was, it was _not_ actually affecting Peter in the same way Vision had been, Strange was wobbly on his feet, but still more than willing to discuss the possible next steps.

"It's much clearer now, and Miss Maximoff has shown me where to look for the right... wavelength, if we can call it that," the wizard declared. "Main part of the problem here was in fact the connection of the Mind Stone to Peter's nervous system. It had dug in and, if I'm reading this correctly, it was trying to affect his judgement — it is quite possible that now, with it being gone, we will not have a repeat of that painkiller mess on our hands... or we just may, depending on how much of this was pure Peter. I've already found the remnant of the Time Stone's influence and it thankfully did not leave a permanent impression either, but it was a part of what had kept Peter from improving as quickly as we expected him to, before. Working against his healing factor," he wavered and took a step back, sitting on the cot that had served as Vision's bed just scant minutes before. "The other stones... May be more tricky. Do we know anyone with, as you put it, _affinity_ to them? Time knows me, so it has bent to my will. The Mind Stone shard was eager to return to its previous setting, what with Miss Maximoff's energy serving as bait. The others will need personal attention from a— dedicated handler."

"But that doesn't make sense. You lot, you aren't working with all of the stones, just the one that controls Time. How can you be sure that they will listen to someone at all?"

"You have one child, but you have taken in another. The method of raising both is similar, even if the children are really completely different persons. Same applies to the Stones, but we may need to find the correct persons to manage them."

"So... the stones are like wilful children."

"Ones that will shock you with radiation and electricity surges if you try to make them clean their rooms, yes. Right now, their afterimages are clinging to Peter, because of what his body carried - the Gauntlet. They were _managed_ by the Gauntlet, so their traces stay with its trace. His," Strange made a suffering face, " _aura_ carries the aura of the Gauntlet, which in turn carries the remnants of four stones. Each of them adds to his burden in some way."

"So if removing Vision took away the trace of the Mind Stone and you managed the green one..."

"We need to find appropriate people who can remove the others."

"Danvers is powered by some fraction of the Space Stone. She is the only candidate to try to remove its influence. As to the others..." he shook his head.

"Three stones, even in this residual form, may still harm him irreversibly — that is, if they hadn't yet... But removing even that one - especially the one we know had been used by so many less than stellar individuals - will be a relief for him."

"Friday, track down and contact Captain Danvers," he marvelled at how steady his voice was now. He had already called in a wizard, a witch and a techie princess - why not add an interplanetary warrior powered by the Tesseract then. Why not.

 

####

 

Peter was waking up, slowly.

There was something wrong about him. He felt... Much too light.

Vision. They managed to get Vision out of him.

_And there had been someone else there, someone..._

Oh. And there was an IV stuck in one of his arms.

_...someone holding his elbow, still..._

Just perfect.

Back to this, apparently.

Shit.

Also, he couldn't see.

Again.

At least the painkiller was working.

"Damn," he croaked and tried to sit up.

Immediately there was someone holding him, cradling his head, supporting him.

"Sh, sh," Mr Stark's voice worked itself through his belaboured breathing. "Peter, lie down, like this. Here."

It was... unexpected, to say the least. But nice.

"You've done so well, son. You've done so well. You can relax now. Our brave boy."

He blinked away the tears, suddenly brought on my that praise.

"What...?"

"Don't try to talk. Stephen said you should be sleeping for some time more. Your brain needs to heal - again. You had two stowaway consciousnesses pulled out of you, and one had slammed back in, it will leave traces— Stephen had to make sure you would not be suffering because of it— You've done so well, Pete. A few more hours of sleep now, wizard's orders. Come on."

He tried to speak, but a sudden sensation of a rather bristly kiss being pressed to the shaved skin of his head surprised him into silence.

"You did so well, nobody could have done better," Mr Stark whispered. "Sleep. Sleep and get better, for us."

Peter slept.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More annoying magic and a happy accident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to make a decision here, whether to go for the happier solution, or less happy but more complicated. Hope you like the result...

Even months later, when he finally properly healed from the fallout of these (rather unscientific, to his immense annoyance) events, he would never be able to accurately tell how long it took him to get back to being _himself_. There were dates in the journal kept strictly by Mrs Stark, and documentation provided by Shuri and updated by doctor Stephen, but they told him nothing. Months in the coma, weeks in Shuri's care, weeks - or days? - again, until the stowaway traces of the Stones were finally eradicated and secondary damage assessed. Months again in recovery and physical therapy. It all... felt unreal. Doctor Stephen's explanation of Time Stone's manipulations of his time perception had a lot of merit, most definitely. There were parts of his memory that seemed to be about things days apart, but felt like something that happened very much at the same time. Or the other way 'round.

He remember vaguely the circumstances of Vision's astral form being removed from him, but it did not really register completely, even when Wanda came to visit him and nearly smothered him in an effusive embrace. Only when he saw the AI-turned-humanform with his own eyes, he managed to fully internalise that he had been supporting the survival of Mr Stark's first AI's consciousness in himself - and survived the experience, too.

There was also that bit when Captain Danvers, who had already saved his life twice, showed up and removed the traces of the Space Stone, literally in a nick of time, before the sliver of what used to be the Tesseract managed to turn him inside out in the fifth dimension.

That one he recalled very foggily, unless the sharp as a knife memory of overwhelming relief and crying like a baby when doctor Stephen held him counted. Not Tony, for some reason - they had to send Tony away, because... because of something. Something important. He remembered doctor Stephen murmuring something it being reasonable to keep the parents away when their kids are undergoing treatment, and about hysterical divas. But it wasn't clear enough for him to be sure, and, after all, it was only him going through the treatment, not Morgan...?

But maybe it was that Tony was in the process of setting up a visit of a certain half-Earthling, half-Celestial dumbass, who had finally agreed, after long hours of negotiations, to touch upon the trace of the Power Stone and try to convince it to let go. Peter was _almost_ sure he remembered seeing Quill, but by the time the man did arrive, another Stone had taken hold of Peter and it became hard to gauge exactly what was happening around him.

Then Tony was back - probably, mostly, again - unsure, as the remaining two were playing merry hell with Peter's perception and stability - and, as they told him later, Pepper was the person involved in negotiating with Jane Foster, who had kindly allowed herself to be convinced to help them remove the Aether from where it had burrowed in. Still, she had arrived only several days later and that time had both stretched into eternity and passed by in second, depending on how he thought of it. At that point the only stable and constant thing was the nearness of Tony, who, as Sam told him later, left Peter's side only and solely when specific stone was being removed, as per doctor Stephen's orders.

This way Tony had almost missed something that Peter himself remembered as a part of Aether-fuelled mirages.

Miss Natasha. Again.

Because of course, why not, he had been the host to the first Stark AI, then what is one thin superspy added to the mix? Why not have Peter Parker, neighbourhood vigilante and kitten rescuer, play conduit to another dimension and serve as a link to the _very person who had sacrificed her life for the people of the Universe!_

When he watched it later on Friday's security recording, it seemed disappointingly tame. There were no special effects, no flash and bang, no mystic fog or smoke. What he remembered had more details, but was still pretty much low-key for such a life-altering event.

One second, there was Jane Foster, cautiously guided by Wanda, reaching _into_ his arm - as in, putting her hand through the matter of his muscle - the next, it was as if someone had pinged two cords stretched along his body like overtaxed strings of a guitar, or short-circuiting wires - and then Jane was holding him up, preventing him from pulling out his IVs, shaking and shouting for help, he was retching over the side of the bed and a form of Natasha Romanov, ex-KGB spy and a SHIELD operative was slowly coalescing by the wall, in Wanda's arms. And all of it just because Jane by accident managed to get the trace of Aether touch the remnant of the Soul Stone.

And what do you get when you put together the Reality Stone and the Soul Stone and the atmosphere of concentrated wish for someone missing to come back? A mess. That's also what you get when you meddle with magic you don't understand completely, as doctor Stephen said few seconds later when he and the others appeared in the room and started to put it to rights - calming down Jane (Pepper and May), cleaning up Peter (who gratefully sank into Tony's arms once he had brushed his teeth) and ensuring that Miss Romanov would not come apart if they touched her (mostly doctor Stephen, with Wanda's help).

Then there was some shouting and since apparently Tony's and Pepper's flat had became a hub of a kind for everyone who wanted to know how Peter was doing (surprisingly, all of the remaining Avengers were quite invested in the health and well-being of their 'spiderkid') there were people around them, picking the miraculously corporeal superspy up - calling for a doctor - securing her arm - carrying her out for immediate surgery...

And, apparently, according to the calendar, it was the Christmas Eve.

24th of December, 2023.

Somehow, all of that stone-related shit had gone down in less than eight days.

It had felt like eight years, by that point.

And somehow, after all this mystical, magical crap, they got an early Christmas present, who was soon moved to rest in the next room, a thick cast over her right arm, the left one connected to more IVs than Peter had been, and under a watchful eye of at least one mystic art specialist of some kind at all times.

And Peter would be spending the holidays in the Stark Tower with the Avengers, their families (mostly the Bartons), and May. And a video call with Ned. Now that he wasn't on the verge of fainting with every move and hopefully would not collapse in tears at a drop of a hat, he finally dared to call his best friend.

"Dude—" Ned shook his head. "You look like shit."

"That's actually positive, I was looking like a mostly-dead zombie a few days ago."

"Zombies are dead anyway."

"Well, so I was worse off than a normal zombie."

"Dude, I mean... Stark Tower? I thought it was just supposed to be, like, temporary."

"And it is!" Peter assured. "I mean, I will be coming home as soon as I'm up to it. It's been a bit of a shit week and I'm completely wiped out."

"And you are having Christmas with them? I mean, a real, proper...? What does Tony Stark's Christmas tree look like? What kind of gifts does one give to the CEO of Stark Industries? Does anyone sing carols...?"

Peter felt his breath catch.

"Shit," he whispered to the screen. "Sorry, Ned. Gotta go."

"Peter? Man, what is...?"

"I don't have _any_ presents. For anyone."

"Peter, you've been sick. If what you're saying... I mean, you were nearly dying, right? I'm sure nobody will hold it against you, man."

"B-but I wanted—"

"Peter, only yesterday you were being turned inside out by cosmic powers and had someone's consciousness pulled out of you today and by the way did I tell you that's awesome? Like, you were _hosting_ the greatest female superspy ever?"

"I'm not sure about that superspy thing, considering she is, like, a celebrity—" he grunted, leaning back on his pillows. "I've read the articles published about her sacrifice — they did all they could to make her look nearly like a goddess or something. Have you seen the murals?"

"Oh, man, yes. Dude, there is one near my building I have to show you, but you can google it. Look for 'santa natalia', I mean, seriously. And we've had the movies shown at school, too. Did she really work for KGB before...?"

Peter rolled his eyes and listened to Ned with a smile.

It was good.

Normal.

Almost like before.

 

####

 

He ended up not having any presents for anyone, just the same as Vision, Wanda and Miss Natasha. Neither of the four had been able to do any shopping, after all, either due to being freshly brought back to life or to participating in said bringing back to life and being excessively attentive towards the results.

Wanda looked like a student during the exam season, flitting nervously from Vision to Miss Natasha to Peter and back to Vision, checking on them, murmuring something about 'integrity' and 'potential power level repercussions' and 'energy discharges' until at some point Vision caught her around the waist as she was trying to get up to move from him to Natasha and pulled her into a rather immovable (vibranium-enhanced) embrace.

"Vis—"

"Just," the android brought her closer and hid his face in her hair, "just stay like this, please?"

"But I have to— Natasha, and, and Peter—"

"They have Strange looking after them. You can sit down and relax."

"Vis!"

Peter turned away, not to be a witness of the tiny lovers' quarrel (which ended with first Vision kissing Wanda rather thoroughly and then Wanda falling asleep in his lap, probably catching her first shut-eye in two weeks). Anyway, the rest of the room was quite busy and rather fascinating.

There was a tree - not too big, which surprised him a bit, knowing Mr Stark's penchant for grand gestures - not much taller than Morgan, in fact. That was being now decorated by Morgan herself, Hawkeye's — Clint's — oldest daughter and May, with Mr Stark occasionally showing up and correcting the placement of this or that ornament "for a better balance" of the tree.

There were cookies being baked and other things done in the kitchen — most of them by Mr Stark, in fact — and a bunch of boxes were delivered from two or three different restaurants, covering both the amount and the variation of needs of everyone present. Peter was told to sit down, get himself properly wrapped up and not move one finger — the same as Miss Natasha, who had been carefully deposited on a chaise-lounge just opposite him and had her IV pole locked to a holder on the back, hastily attached there by Mr Stark just for that purpose, after Morgan managed to trip over the free-standing one for the third time.

There were carols softly playing over Friday's speakers and people joining in the singing randomly when their favourite came up. Just like in any other family everywhere.  
There was Mrs Stark, looking quite unlike her normal business self, dressed in clothes soft and flowy and drapey, a long cardigan-like jacket, heather-violet-blue trousers and silver-gray top, all together in the colours of her Rescue armour, sitting at the table with Laura Barton and helping the two younger Barton kids decorate gingerbread cookies.

There was domesticity and familiarity and calm. There were jokes and stories and the feeling of being _done_. Finished. On their way to healing.

There was a group videocall with Colonel Rhodes, who was visiting his family, but simply _had_ to hear from Mr Stark about the progress they had made and went all wide-eyed at the sight of Miss Natasha — Mr Stark had kept this a secret from him, apparently.

There was a message from Captain Danvers, who had been checking on Peter every other day since she had removed the traces of Tesseract from him and was overjoyed to see him up and about, already promising to visit in spring, threatening him with a sparring match and a plan to take him out flying "but only if you are a good spider, take all your meds and get better" ("no way in hell you are flying anywhere with her, kiddo" was Mr Stark's mumbled comment). There were greetings from Thor and the Guardians (the one from Quill rather full of self-congratulatory boasting), from Sam Wilson and from James Barnes (Mr Stark made a face at that) and a text from MJ ("Good to know you're OK, loser").

And then, on Christmas day, when the whole penthouse and the two guest floors were silent with the silence of grownups asleep after a late night of gift-wrapping and surreptitious gift-under-the-tree-dropping trips, there came a little Morgan-tornado.

"Petey!" she whisper-called as she pushed the door to his bedroom — finally, back on the "home" floor and not in the medical section — "Petey! Look!"

He sat up, blinking blearily, pushing up with his left hand... ah. He didn't have to.

"Morrie?" he squinted. "Wha'?"

"Lookie! He has come when we were sleeping! I though I could stay up but then Mommy told me to just lie down on the sofa and rest my eyes and I must have fallen asleep, but I was sure I could catch him this year, because Friday is supposed to warn us about any kind of intruders, so he must have hacked her, but then anyway how could he come in, since we don't have a chimney, so there is no way for him to get here, so he would have to break in and that makes him a bad guy, so—"

"Mor—" he shook his head. "Who?"

"Santa! I was thinking about him and how he gets in, and back at home it was OK because we had the fireplace and a chimney and everything, but here it's like very high and there is no way in and I was wondering how he come in without getting any alarms tripped and I asked Happy if there is any way someone could fly to our flat and put things in but he says there are security proto—porto— things that stop people from doing it."

"So you though Friday would notice him, sound an alarm and you could catch Santa redhanded?"

She scrunched her nose at him.

_Totally a little Merida. Like, she is a Disney Princess in the making._

"Next year I'll help you set up additional alarm system so it plays a sound in your room when someone tries to open the windows on Christmas Eve, OK?"

Her eyes widened.

"Yeah! We can ask Daddy for some parts to put together a trap!"

"Sure. And we can ask him to allow us to add a routine for Friday to look for suspicious blokes in red costumes saying 'ho ho ho'."

"That would be the bestest thing to do! Come on. We need to see the presents...!"

Peter licked his lips and looked at the wheelchair parked by his bed. Sighed. He hated the damned thing. With passion.

But the only alternative was asking for someone's help.

_Like, nope._

"OK. Just, let's not make too much noise, Morrie, if we can. Let's not wake them too early, hm?"

 

###

 

"...and this is the best one, because you can put these two together and they make a much bigger car. And I have this other one already, so we can build the bigger one..."

Tony blocked Pepper's way before she managed to enter the open area where the tree was.

"Sh," he nodded towards the scene in the middle of the room.

Morgan was sitting on the sofa, holding a box of something and explaining it with passion to Peter. Peter, sitting on the wheelchair he had rejected so strongly just days before — so much so that he hadn't learnt to use it in time — and then had had no chance to use it at all — and now, he was sitting in it, legs wrapped in a blanket, assisting Morgan in removing the paper from yet another box.

"Oooh! A solar spider robot set! We will paint it all red and blue!"

"Sure."

But Peter was smiling. Leaning back on the chair and pale, but smiling.

"And here is one for you," Morgan made another run to the tree.

"Oh," the boy frowned. "That's nice, but let's see the spider robot first, hm? What does it do?"

"We have to build it," she pointed out on the box. "There are sixty parts. And an engine and a solar panel to power it. And then it can walk and we can make a program to make it walk anywhere we want to."

"That sounds promising—" he leaned back a bit more. "Maybe we can put it together before breakfast? As long as you are very, very quiet?"

Pepper ducked under Tony's arm and strode into the room.

"And what happened to the 'one present before breakfast' rule, young lady?"

The children's eyes snapped up to her and she could see Peter's lips trembling.

"I'm sorry," he inhaled shakily. "I-I-I didn't know, and I thought, if I keep her busy, everyone will have a chance to sleep longer — I'm so sorry, Mrs Stark, I—"

"You _didn't know_ , Pete, exactly," Tony joined them, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Morgan knew, but probably forgot, but you didn't know. Don't worry. Also, you actually didn't open any of your packages, so it's mostly Morgan who is in trouble right now."

"B-b-but I told her to pick another one, so we could do something quietly, and so she opened them all because of me, and..."

Pepper exchanged an amused glance with her husband, who rolled his eyes.

"Pete, chill. I mean it. Morgan should have told you — or asked one of us to start working on preparing breakfast — but it's fine. Neither of you is in trouble. It's just a rule meant to make sure she doesn't get up at crazy o'clock in the morning and is done with the presents by the time the adults are awake. And anyway, last year she was only four, so she probably forgot by now, we forgot to remind her, so, everyone is equally guilty. Problem solved. Now, since the little princess here had managed to get to three of her boxes, you have the right to open at least the same number, while we prepare something nutritious that will keep us all vertical for the rest of this ordeal."

"Um?" the boy looked at Tony and then back at Pepper.

"Everyone coming in and digging for their boxes and then strewing the paper everywhere, with Morgan making the biggest of messes. I'm not even sure how it will work out this year, with this number of people _and_ presents, but I'm pretty sure we will we wading hip-deep in ribbons in two hours and looking for lost LEGO pieces in the carpet for the next two days."

Peter's lips quirked into a s tiny, tiny smile.

"OK. I will open something now, just to be even with Morrie... At least none of these LEGO pieces will be mine, I suppose. But I'll try to help Mor save hers from being trod upon."

"Well, you will be saving the grownups from treading on them, rather," Pepper patted his shoulder, carefully not commenting on the first part of his statement. "Tony and I will deal with breakfast and you pick your three boxes—"

"I will pick them!" Morgan jumped up immediately.

"Wait, Morgan...!"

"It's OK," the boy looked up at her and shook his head. "Whatever she picks. It will be fine."

Pepper tried not to look too intrusively towards the tree, where her daughter was digging through the colourful pile in her search, but once the girl had pulled out one of the biggest boxes stacked there and held it up with a smile, she nodded and mouthed 'go ahead', making her daughter scurry back to the table.

"Pancakes or waffles?" Tony's question was accompanied by a kiss to her earlobe.

"Toast and orange juice," she sighed. "And scrambled eggs. I will need energy for this."

"Pete? An egg, some toast? A butter roll? A croissant?"

"M-may I have a croissant? With— with some cheese? And orange juice, too?"

Tony nodded affably and turned towards the counter, pulling out all the needed ingredients — croissants delivered late the night before, from a nice bakery whose owner did not celebrate Christmas (but made a killing on delivering freshly baked bread to people who did), the milder cheese, one Peter apparently preferred, according to May—

"Tony," she hissed. "Look."

Peter was looking at the carefully wrapped box with a frown.

"Shake it!" Morgan was nearly vibrating in her spot, she was bouncing on her feet so fast.

"There are pieces in it," the boy said, playing along.

"Soft or hard?"

He shook it again.

"Hard. There are pieces, pieces of plastic, in wrapping—" he trailed off.

And looked up.

His eyes meeting Pepper's.

Oups.

Slowly, slowly, hands shaking, he undid the tiny pieces of sticky tape, one by one.

Removed the ribbon.

Pulled off the paper.

An impressively big, gleaming, navy-blue box emerged.

"H-how did you—"

"I do have some connections at a variety of companies around the world," Tony said softly, not raising his eyes from the pancakes he was prodding with his spatula. "There is a guy at LEGO that owed me a few. Now he owes me less. I wanted a fresh new box - well, a fresh one... Did you know that this model is, like, twice your age?"

"I'm pretty sure it was produced in the nineties," Peter ran his fingers over the pristine flaps and corners. "So it can't be two times older than me."

"Yes it can. It's twenty and you are ten. Twice your age, here. I mean, you do know maths on the level needed to perform this complicated calculation...?" Tony shot Peter a little smirk, which the boy received with an eyeroll.

Morgan did not.

"Daddy! Petey is not ten, he is sixteen! Two times sixteen is thirty-two, not twenty! You can't count properly!"

"Morrie—" Peter started, but a plate with a cheese-slathered croissant placed in front of him interrupted whatever he had been going to say.

"No pancakes for you yet, young man, but I think you can eat this safely," Tony squeezed his shoulder. "And there are two more boxes you can open—" he reached behind the sofa, to the side of the tree. "This, and this. Come on. Chop chop."

Peter frowned, weighing one of them carefully.

"This—" he closed his eyes, cocking his head to the side as he moved it from side to side. "One large mass. Bubble wrap all around it. A piece of electro— Mr Stark, I don't need a laptop!"

"Yes, you do. I saw your desktop computer and, I can tell you with perfect certainty, this thing inside is more powerful than your current PC. And that's even taking into account the fact that the graphic card is an onboard one. And I mean it. I've had it designed specifically for you. One of a kind."

"B-but, sir, I—"

"Nu-uh. You will need it. For school, for games, whatever. And—" her husband looked up, meeting her eyes for a moment. "And open the third box. Please."

The third box was comparatively tiny. Deceptively so, she thought, knowing the contents.

Peter's hands were shaking as he undid the paper wrapping she had so carefully put on it the night before.

"A—" he stuttered. "An SI badge? W-with... Mine? But— but how, I mean— but it doesn't say 'intern' here."

"Because you aren't an intern, Peter. Not anymore."

The boy's eyes widened as he looked up at the both of them.

"Y-you sure, I mean, I-I never, actually—"

"Peter," Tony reached out and squeezed the shaking shoulder. "It's done. You are working in SI, full time — well, up-to-your-boss time — and this is your badge. Actual proper one, letting you in everywhere you need. Just like Pepper's and Happy's and mine."

And it was. Peter's photo, Peter's name, Peter's personnel number. SI logo. Just like every other employee's.

There were also tears spilling from the boy's eyes as he looked up at the two of them.

"Th-thank you. I mean — I didn't really think — I thought I had been dreaming then. In the embassy."

"Oh, Peter," she leaned closer and wrapped him in a lopsided hug. "Why didn't you— you didn't want to ask us, because that would have sounded silly?"

He nodded, mutely, sighing against her shoulder.

"Well then, now you have it, kiddo," her husband patted the boy's free shoulder. "Come on. Open that skeleton car box and let's see what the big fuss is all about."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I picked the "happier" option here. I was kind of considering making Nat into a computer-based entity, which would have involved Friday trawling through her databanks for Natasha's impression from the time of time heist, Scott using the van and its hardware to help her being copied, up to and including a partial copy of her on a pendrive with Luis' music selection.  
> But it became WAY too complex (and cracky). And she would not have been home for Christmas. So.
> 
> Also, the lego set that Peter opens is [8880 Technic Supercar](https://www.bricklink.com/v2/catalog/catalogitem.page?S=8880-1), the same one Peter mentions in chapter 7.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct followup from the last chapter.  
> Also, long-term ramifications of everyone's actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you notice a sentence going nowhere or a word written weirdly, please let me know. I've had most of this chapter ready for weeks and weeks, but I've edited and corrected it today when I should have been sleeping.
> 
> One more chapter left.  
> Just one. This time seriously.  
> It's written, just undergoing thorough review and plot hole management.

It was a _relatively_ calm Christmas day after that. The number of guests and semi-permanent residents present at any given time fluctuated, some leaving to visit their families, some going out to enjoy the decorations and events, but Peter, at least for the time being, was happy to stick to the penthouse. He felt no need to leave — with May and the three Starks there it seemed, for the moment, the most perfect place on the planet to be.

And the others were nice, too. There were more presents and all the messes related to the presents, there were the Barton kids squealing in happiness at the (unexpectedly for them) sizeable heaps of toys they received, there were grownups exchanging small (or not-so-small, in case of ones distributed by Mr Stark) gifts. There was a plush BB8 pillow for him from May and an e-book reader from Mrs Stark ("better for your eyes than the tablet", she said), a "get better FINNALLY!" card from Morgan and a second one from Clint's kids, a box of glow-in-the-dark Geomag from Sam (with a tag saying "You are _never_ too old for these!") and several more LEGO sets. Definitely many more LEGO sets than he had ever imagined he could receive for any given single occasion. Mr Stark stood over his shoulder as Peter unpacked his new laptop and watched him carefully set the system up to his requirements. And yes, the laptop was most definitely a much stronger machine than his poor old desktop PC or the even older laptop he had inherited from Ben. And it came with a connection to Karen and was fully controlled by her, so Peter spent an hour quietly chatting with his AI and adjusting everything to his particular needs with her help.

Then they all sat down (or rolled towards the table) to eat, traditions from different families mixing and matching on the large table, crowned with May uncovering a large box of raisin-studded pannettone and Mr Stark going all wide-eyed at the sight, saying something in Italian that made May throw a balled-up serviette at him. There were carols in the background and some more gifts being found here and there around the room. Mrs Stark even got the children to remove most of the wrapping paper into the huge recycling bag and Morgan collected all the ribbons, claiming she had a plan to use them for her next craft project, so finally they weren't, in fact, wading hip-deep in torn packaging. Just ankle-deep.

There were chocolate cookies with pistachios, and ginger snaps, and macaroons, and ginger cookies cut out in many shapes, covered with a ton of icing and edible gel colours. Hawkeye's wife — Laura? — had baked an cinnamon-rich apple pie from her grandmother's recipe, Mrs Stark ordered meat pies from some tiny exclusive bakery only she knew the name of ("I can't bake them, dear, but I definitely know where to buy what I like") and finally, after teasing Morgan for a few minutes, Mr Stark unwrapped a bar of torrone, which he chopped into chunks and passed to all the children. Peter remembered the honey-rich candy from the few times May had managed to find "the good brand" before Christmas, so he accepted his piece with alacrity.

Honey and almonds. Raisins and lemon zest. Chocolate and pistachios. A combination of tastes and aromas that told him, without any doubt, that Christmas was there. Good Christmas. Rich Christmas. The exact same kind as they used to have when Ben was still around and both him and May had time to prepare and money enough to afford everything May's Italian ancestors deemed vital for a proper family celebration.

"They will be so full of sugar we will never get them to sleep," May murmured as she watched the sticky sweets disappearing from the plate. If anyone asked Peter, Nathaniel and Morgan had reached full saturation with sacharose several hours before already, but hey, he wasn't a parent. Also, only a wacko would point that out to adults and risk being cut off from their own favourite cookies as a result. Right?

"Well, it _is_ one of the important milestones of the holiday season, getting the kids too hyped up on candy to stand still," Mr Stark snatched the last piece and chewed with a blissful smile. "A least in here they have enough space to run themselves tired again."

Peter breathed it all in.

Photos.

Carols in the background.

Stories.

Morgan falling asleep sprawled on him.

Joy.

 

#

 

Not so joyfully, late in the evening, after the whole day of excitement and happiness, Peter's temperature spiked dangerously. Mrs Stark was forced to throw May and Mr Stark out of his room — because they were fussing too much — and allowed only doctor Stephen and doctor Cho in. Once he was diagnosed with extreme exhaustion and a delayed reaction to the brutal and rather sudden removal of the magical traces - his nervous system was now taking its revenge - he remained only awake long enough to remember doctor Stephen touching his forehead gently. He slept for most of the rest of the week, again shaking and sweating buckets in turn, waking up only to find himself again hooked up to more than one IV and accompanied by one or more grownups. As Christmas weeks go, this one sucked. Probably. He missed most of it by being asleep, after all.

There were three points of comfort in the general murky memory of that week.

May had the entire week off. Unlike her job at the hospital, working for the Starks — or the Avengers, he wasn't sure how to classify it exactly — came with a comfortable number of leave days and a 'childcare days', which she took advantage of, happily.

Then there was the Black Widow.

When Miss Natasha ("call me Nat, kid, please") herself was allowed to be up and about on the day after Christmas — her arm still in a cast and a sling, tied tightly to her chest — somehow she ended up spending most of her time sitting in Peter's room, talking to him quietly about everything and nothing. When his temperature rose again and he became delirious, unstuck in time and lost in his own memories, she sat with him, holding his hand and keeping him tethered to reality, patiently answering his repetitive questions — "What time is it?" "Where did May go?" "Where is Mr Stark?" "What happened?" and "Why are you here?" — waiting for his brain to heal itself again from the damage which the last two stone traces had left - and which his exhaustion had prevented him from resisting. And all of it with a small, soft smile he had never associated with the tough-as-nails woman before.

After he recovered, she remained. A steady, stabilising presence by his side - napping in the soft chair she had ordered Mr Stark to drag in for her from the living room, reading, watching something on her tablet or just... sitting there, watching _him_. She claimed that unlike May and Mr Stark, she had no other duties and so could take their place whenever the outside world won the battle for their attention.

Despite the high potential for weirdness that being babysat by an ex-KGB assassin carried with it, he felt _comforted_ by her. Somehow the slight touch of her fingers on his left hand — exactly opposite to where she had been holding him across the realities — brought him calm and peace, even at the peak of fever. It told him, better than any words, that they were _done_. Finished. Saved. She was out, she was next to him, not somehow, unnaturally hooked to the part of his soul ruled by the Soul Stone.

And then there was Mr Stark. Holding him through the shivers, bringing him a wet towel during the fever peaks. Waking him up, walking him to the bathroom, hugging him through waves of pain, when his nervous system responded to stimuli long gone - Miss Natasha's nastily broken right elbow, in particular. Wrapping him in a heap of blankets and allowing Peter to fall asleep cuddled into his mentor's warm side. Once Peter's fever abated, Mr Stark set up a bed tray for the laptop, allowing Peter to sign up to a variety of online classes to get him started on some school-like work before he was physically up to going to an actual school (and, rather patiently for him, took over the keyboard and entered his credit card information to pay for the full classes when Peter attempted to only sign up for the free ones). He was also there when Peter finally broke down and asked, ashamed, for help with shaving the sorry excuse for facial hair that had attacked him in the weeks of bed rest. Peter was afraid to attempt the feat himself, as his fine motor skills were still shot to hell, but the feeling of having a moustache consisting of seventeen stupid hairs was really annoying. The relief at getting rid of them was monumental.

And it was Mr Stark who stumbled into his room in the middle of the night and found him crying helplessly over the fact that maybe, just maybe, he would never be able to use his hands again properly, and spent several hours just holding him, comforting him and never, ever even once saying that boys should not cry and that everything would be fine if only Peter worked on it a bit harder.

He was like that. He was just like that. An arm to pick Peter up, a shoulder to cry on, a hand to comb through Peter's wild hair. A heart that Peter fell asleep listening to.

A steady, reassuring breath of "You'll be OK, kiddo. You'll be OK. I'll make sure of it," when Peter felt like nothing was going to be OK ever again.

A kiss to the forehead.

Just like this.

 

#

 

Despite his reasonably quick recovery from the sudden after-Christmas affliction, even following the New Year Peter's life remained rather severely limited in the variety department. He had his space and schedule in Stark Tower — his room, the gruelling PT aimed at rebuilding his muscles, the slightly less exhausting but nevertheless annoying fine motor skills exercises. All this — and his free time — in the company of the people he loved, or at least liked. Apart from Tony, who was spending most of his non-working time divided between Peter and Morgan, he had May, who mainly focused on distracting him from - now normal in range - pains of physical therapy, and Sam, who was focused on talking him through the major case of PTSD many of the snapped-away (and all of the battle participants) had contracted.

Shuri called every three or four days to check on Peter and to ask whether he would not consider it a good idea to take the 'Black Panther Advil' from time to time (he wouldn't, not as long as the pain was in the normal range of 'overworked muscle').

Ned had finally gathered his courage and suggested he could visit Peter ("In the Tower! Dude! I mean... _dude_...!") and subsequently spent the afternoon in the penthouse alternating between awed silence and excited babble. Babble in particular escalated once Peter had shown him the Supercar ("Tony Stark! Helped you! Build it!" "And Morgan. She helped a lot, too." "Morgan Stark! Like, real life Stark kid...!!!!"). It was a good, it was normal. It was something they were already planning to repeat - possibly every week, as soon as Peter's schedule of physical therapy would lessen somewhat.

Of rarer occurrences, there was that one afternoon spent with Wanda, who decided she didn't really, fully trust doctor Stephen's proficiency in the matters of intuitive magic _as yet_ and so felt the need for a thorough review of Peter's aura from her own point of view. Just in case. To check him 'after that nasty fever', as she called the last, delayed result of his ordeal with the stones and to make perfectly sure nothing whatsoever was left in him that could potentially cause problems at a later date.

There was, in fact, nothing at all to be found in his aura, and Wanda looked much less stressed and much less pinched about the mouth when she finished looking him over slowly and carefully. It was nice to be able to talk to her normally, at last - her being so much more relaxed and somehow— brighter? - and him finally feeling more like a stable human being and not a shivery cloud of conflicting forces being drawn apart by cosmic irony. They spent the rest of the evening discussing the American school system and Wanda's desire to pick up some classes and complete her education now that she was a fully legal resident.

He was really looking forward to paying her back, at least a little, for what she had done for him. And he knew Mr Stark would grumble, but would also help, if asked.

And Peter was much more ready to ask for help for someone else than for himself. Asking for stuff for Wanda would be _easy_.

 

#

 

Occasionally, there were some new voices he caught — far away from his room, sometimes in the elevator, maybe on other floors — people who were questioning Mr Stark for some reason, asking whether he had to be spending time at home while he was needed somewhere else.

He felt guilty, even in his feverish state. He hoped Mr Stark was not letting someone down just because he chose to sit with his silly vigilante sidekick, but he couldn't find the right words to convey the message to the man.

On the other hand... had Mr Stark _ever_ done anything he didn't want to?

Nah, never. Never ever.

Well, not unless Mrs Stark ordered him to.

At least this time Peter was hearing all this with his regular spider-given supersenses and not due to a wonky astral projection.

It was a definite improvement.

 

#

 

And then there was Morgan.

Who, on rather regular basis, found her way to his room and, step by step, day by day, unexpectedly, into his heart. By the simple virtue of being _herself_.

She told him things that somehow the grownups never mentioned around him, but were freely discussing in front of a little kid. Many people easily forgot how smart said little kid was, and so Peter learnt of the trouble in the city and the world, the problems with the military, the stupid people who came to shout at Mr Stark for various reasons - all summarised in her childish, five-year-old language, yet still communicated quite effectively.

And there was that evening in late January, when he was so tired and sore that he only had enough strength to sit in his bed and cry. Morgan peeked in, took one look at him and ordered Friday to search for an appropriate grownup to help.

"Good kid you have here, Mr Stark," he joked weakly when finally the most appropriate grownup showed up and sat heavily on the side of the bed, surveying Peter and Morgan curled up around each other as she drooled on Peter's pyjamas, dozing.

"I see two good kids, Peter," his mentor squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier, but there are some problems big enough that the government is asking for the Iron Legion to be used for a support of ground teams. I was setting up the controls for Friday, Rhodey, Pepper and Sam to be able to manage the whole set."

"I see, sir," he sighed. "Exactly how bad is it out there?"

"Pretty messed up in general... And there are many voices raised against Avengers as a whole. What annoys me the most. there are even some people still on a lookout for you, I'm afraid, so..."

"No worries, sir. I'm not going outside anytime soon."

"Why do you keep calling Daddy 'sir'? It sounds weird," Morgan complained sleepily, snuggling closer to him. "Albert from my class has to call his daddy 'sir', because his daddy is a very important kind of general and Albert is going to be a soldier one day, so he has to 'learn the discipline'. But Daddy isn't a general and you aren't a soldier, so...?"

He blinked, looking down at her.

"In a way, he is, and I am..." he said slowly. "I mean, I am... part of the Avengers... am I, still, Mr Stark?"

The way his mentor's face changed, just minutely, stopped him.

"Am I?"

"You were always an Avenger, Peter," the older man responded softly. "But she is right, you know. You aren't a soldier and I'm not your commander. I may be your leader and your mentor and your teacher and whatever else you need. And we may choose something appropriate to reflect this - although 'sensei' is out of question - but we are not a military unit."

"Stupid," Morgan mumbled, sitting up, her arms crossed in front of her. "Daddy always said that when you are back, I will see what it means to have a big brother. That you will be around a lot and maybe I will learn things from you, because you are smart. You are sick now and that is not fun, but when you are better, I will take you everywhere and show everyone I have a big brother now and we will be having fun, OK?"

He felt his breath catch a tiny little bit.

"Pumpkin, I'm not sure if that's quite..."

"That's fine, sir. Really. It will be ages before I can go to school or even get through the city on my own... and, you know, I really have no idea what my school looks like right now, or even if I maybe have to find a new one or whatever. I will be a year behind everyone anyway, including Ned, so why not use the rest of that year to, you know. Get some practice in being a good big brother. Totally worth it, I think," he pulled squirming Morgan closer, making her giggle.

"But Peter, if you are my big brother, you really can't call Daddy 'sir' all the time," she demanded finally, shaking away the cloud of messy hair. "I mean, it does sound really, really stupid."

"You could just call me by my name," a suggestion came, given in a slightly hoarse voice. "You did, a few times - on the battleground..."

He didn't remember that.

He called Mr Stark 'Tony' sometimes in his thoughts, but this...

"Or you can call him 'Dad', you know."

His superhearing actually told him that Mr Stark's heart skipped a beat, literally.

"I, well, I, Morgan, I'm... I'm not, I mean..."

He was babbling.

Probably panicking.

But then there was a kid plastered to his side, hugging him with all her might, and there was a man holding him, running his hands down his shoulders in a comforting pattern and, oh dear God, did she just order him, Peter Parker, to call Tony Stark 'Dad'? Why would she...

"I will say it quite seriously," Mrs Stark - when had she come in? - said, patting his shoulder. "She gets ninety-nine percent of what she asks for, Peter. You may just as well give in now."

"But that's not just my decision, I mean, Mr Stark...!" he glanced at his mentor beseechingly, only to be met with a small, somehow scared smile.

"That one percent of cases when she _doesn't_ get something is when _I_ decide so. Whatever she asks of Tony, she gets."

He felt his head whirling around in a very crazy fashion.

"What about you? What do you think I should do?" he asked helplessly as Mrs Stark pulled the comforter higher around his torso and he looked at Mr Stark again. The older man's face was now... unreadable. And he was watching his wife with rare intensity.

"I'm OK with it, Peter. We can discuss what you could call _me_ at some later point, but if you can wrap your head around 'Aunt Pepper' it will be fine with me. Occasional 'Miss Potts' or 'Mrs Stark' will be acceptable of course, but you could try actually using just my first name, if that doesn't feel too weird."

"But Mommy, this is stupid...!"

"No, Morgan. Peter is big enough to make a free decision and I'm offering him choices. Daddy may offer him some other choices and Peter will be able to pick from them, whatever he wants. I just don't think any of us would have felt comfortable with Peter calling me his mother."

"Because you'd feel old if a teenager called you 'mom', admit that," Natasha joined them, sitting herself in the foot of the bed. "What's that council for?"

"Me calling..."

"Peter calling Daddy 'sir'," Morgan interrupted his halting speech. "Mommy says he should call her 'aunt', but I think it's stupid anyway."

"Come here, squirt," Natasha pulled Morgan up into her lap. "Now why would you think it's stupid?"

"Because Peter is my big brother," the kid explained with a whine. "And it sounds weird...!"

"But you know that Peter already has kind of a mom, right? His aunt May?"

Morgan frowned.

"And May has been his aunt much longer than he has known your Mommy, since she is the one who brought him up. So she is more like his mother than your mom could be. So it would be unfair to May if Peter called someone else 'mom'."

There was a beat of silence.

The little one seemed to be chewing on that reasoning.

"But he doesn't have anyone else who would think it's unfair that Daddy is his father, right?"

Peter glanced fleetingly at Mr Stark.

Dark eyes were watching him with uncommon intensity.

"Yeah," he coughed, looking down. "There is... nobody better."

"See? Told you," Morgan threw out a hand expressively. "So you can call him Daddy now."

"I..."

That was a hug that had been pending since forever, apparently, going by the intensity. Mr Stark - Tony - d... his mind shied away from that idea, but hopefully for the last time - was not a powered-up soldier like Captain Rogers, but still, he was plenty strong.

"Peter?" his _father_ asked finally. "Are you OK with this?"

"Ye—ah," he felt his voice break, just a bit. "I am. Dad."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May 2024.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so. That.  
> That story grew unexpectedly, from "maybe 5 chapters" "well, 9..." to 16. In a rather short time, too.  
> It also turns out to be, as of now, my most read, kudos-ed, bookmarked and subscribed story. Despite being the newest one. I must say I am rather surprised, but also very grateful.  
> Thank you all for following the story - from its rather harsh beginning, through the angsty middle, to the somewhat more fluffy end. Than you for the comments, and the bookmarks (with comments) and all the encouragement.

By the time May rolled around, things were slowly getting more normal - or at least as close to normal as the life could become for them. Not that the reality in general got much better, but hey, they were managing. Most of the time.

Morgan had to be taken out of the not-as-secure-as-they-thought school and was getting homeschooled, by teachers they had hired through a careful system of vetting and personal recommendation. They wanted no more weird accidents with people who tried to get at them by making their kid miserable. Or by abducting her.

If she needed to leave the Tower, Happy drove her everywhere personally, ceding the control of the car to Tony or Pepper only occasionally and after a lot of convincing. He felt directly responsible for her safety, ever since some of the more stubborn paparazzi followed him to Morgan's ballet lessons and accosted her teacher, trying to get a scoop on the "Stark Princess".

Pepper was doing her best to delegate the work to people qualified, even if she felt the compulsive need to control each and every detail of how SI and its subsidiaries worked, up to and including occasional micromanaging the inner decisions of Stark Relief Foundation, which in these messed up days was more and more needed and had been recently reconstructed into an international organisation of loosely-connected cells under the shared command of Pepper, Nakia, Janet van Dyne and several more like-minded benefactresses all around the world. It seemed that, after all the conflicts and wars, the blessing of the financial and technical support was much better received by the beleaguered nations if the face of the blessing was female. It was sexism, pure and simple, but with the state of the humanity in general being what it was, all the ladies quietly agreed to let the particular mindset work for them, not against them, and made all the better use of the situation, supporting and strengthening the local communities by providing the means for more equal division of resources, better education of girls and higher involvement of women in the paid workforce.

If various bozos all around the planet felt better when they saw women working on cleaning the world of messes left behind by their petty squabbling, the Foundation was most certainly going to pay these women handsomely.

Tony limited himself to more domestic and technical range of pursuits. Other than joining Sam and Rhodey for interventions in the immediate vicinity of the city, fighting with politicians on state and federal level and representing the company on a variety of occasions ("Should I be the chief designer tonight, or just your arm candy?" "Just put on that bloody bow tie, Tony!" "Arm candy it is...") he spent most of his alone-time in the lab, tinkering with new designs. Occasionally, he pushed the work slightly forward, here and there, but he was not really innovating all that much, except for the projects he kept in his private folders. Including the one he had just finalised that very morning.

His lack of progress on most of the projects was mainly due to the fact that he found working all alone, by himself, not as much fun anymore. Unless it was on one of these special little projects he actually _wanted_ to hide from a certain someone, of course.

That inability to focus on anything major on his own meant that real work had any chance of starting only around two in the afternoon - when the elevator lock chimed with a notification of an authorised entry from the 'family' list being made on the ground floor.

However, in practice, the work rarely started before five.

By the time the elevator chimed again to signal the door opening on their floor, Morgan would be waiting there, ready to pull Peter deeper into the flat in order to show him her current project, new game or whatever it was that the ants in her ant farm had done. At the beginning, Pepper had quietly expressed some doubts about the way their daughter was managing Peter's time. With Morgan being, despite her obvious intellect, still a preschooler — and Peter so much older than her — she thought they couldn't expect him to be enthusiastic about being ordered about by a five-year-old and forced to participate in entertainment aimed at people twelve years younger than him. But... He was, apparently, quite OK with it all. Surprisingly to many, utterly unsurprisingly to Tony. Tony was completely unsurprised and, definitely, very much supportive. Kids - _his kids especially_ , as he silently added just to himself — should have time to be themselves, without parental oversight or anyone telling them what to do and how to do it. And he planned to make sure these two had all the time in the world to just be kids, despite the way the world around them seemed intent on messing their lives up.

Despite some critique from people who thought they knew better how to bring up children (as in: authors of articles from all kinds of gossip rags, who really should have known better than to try to stick their noses into Starks' private life, of all things), there was nothing wrong with the two of them spending time watching ants or checking out the newest magnetic construct or playing the Hangman. It was, in fact, a relief to have them there, safe and more or less sound. It did him good. It did all the adults good. It was the best kind of blood pressure medicine the world could find, desperately needed by the Stark Industries CEO and her husband in these tumultuous times.

That calming effect was very much sought after, especially since they had discovered that employees of the cleaning company working on the building opposite had managed to sell some very grainy telephoto shots of Morgan and Peter spending time in the Tower's greenhouse to the press. Due to the spike of interest in their private lives, they all had to live in a state of tightened security for several weeks. Said press had a field day going over Pepper's failings as a mother - mostly focused on her hiring an unqualified babysitter who simply allows the child to run around wildly and sailing away to be the CEO of the a tech giant - and delving into Tony's various vices from his "wild years", followed up by analysing the dangers of his superheroing times (painted mostly as funny, passing eccentricities of a multi-billionaire) finishing with discussing, most vaguely, the identity of the person accompanying "the Stark Princess". On which they had next to nothing, but everyone knew that lack of proper facts had never stopped a gossip magazine from speculating. Wildly.

Poor Peter had gone through a lot of effort to avoid being identified, changing his outfits on the way to and back from his new school, almost never appearing outside without a baseball cap and huge shades and completely forgoing using public transport.

Like today, when Happy's second-in-command picked him up from school and delivered him back home.

Home, yes. Because that was what the Tower had become for Peter. He and May had, finally, after many arguments and a lot of convincing (Pepper had thrown him out for part of that, since he got on May's nerves rather easily) agreed to move into the spacious apartment two floors down from the penthouse. This kind of lack of independence was, unfortunately, the price one paid for associating with the Starks, Avengers and everything related. May hadn't been very happy about it, but the safety of her nephew won easily with every other consideration. And, also, the building they used to live in had been deemed structurally unsound and queued for demolition — together with big swathes of Queens and Brooklyn — so she graciously caved in. All the time reminding Tony that it was done solely for Peter's sake. Not that he would ever try to contradict her.

After all, there were so many things he did himself that were supposedly "because Peter".

He glanced at his watch and decided to give Peter another half hour with Morgan. The kid had been working so hard at school, he deserved some fun, even if it was, at least temporarily, limited to what he could experience in his own home. His teachers were sending reports full of praise, despite Peter joining in the middle of the school year _and_ with an almost a year of delay, so— Yeah, he could play with Morgan, if he wished to.

Since the schools were in disarray and many pupils have left Midtown, despite its previously good results, it wasn't all that hard to convince Peter to transfer to a place with better security and much better test scores and graduate college acceptance rate. That turned out to be even easier once they learnt that both of his friends were going to leave their old school at the end of the current term — MJ starting her college in the fall and Ned switching to that same exact preparatory academy as Peter — and so the kid had finally admitted that there wasn't much keeping him at Midtown. Definitely not sentiment, considering that annoying boy — Fish? Flush? — was still there. In fact, learning that Ned would be in his new school, even if they had no classes together, was a deciding point.

Checking the time again, Tony stood in the door to the living room for a few minutes, watching Morgan trying to explain the intricacies of the Magical Little Pony society to a high school student, before he coughed strategically loudly.

Wide, pale eyes turned to him and a strand of white hair fell straight into one of them. Peter chased it away with a huff and smiled.

Because that was the price his boy had paid.

Once Peter's hair had started to grow back from where it had burned off or shaved, it grew back white. Brilliant, snowy white. Unnatural, as he had heard some of the Tower employees whisper. Well, possibly, but what exactly _had been_ natural about the years they had all just lived through?

("It makes him look more mature than you," said Pepper quietly, that one time, when they found out. Tony cried in the lab for hours after that. Peter wasn't supposed to have borne that high a cost of their victory.)

And despite all efforts on the side of Shuri and Strange, they hadn't yet managed to ensure they'd be able to change Peter's eye colour back to their natural brown without risking damaging his eyesight.

So Peter's eyes stayed as they came out of the multiple layers of bandages all these months ago - pale brown, nearly golden; rimmed with thick, silver-white eyelashes and topped by equally white eyebrows. The result was shocking for anyone - more so for people who had known Peter before.

One person — one who knew Peter only from the photos — didn't care a whit.

Morgan.

Morgan thought most grownups were stupid, with small exceptions, Peter being one of them. Morgan thought Peter looked interesting, and since nobody in their family (extended definition of) ever drew her attention to anything being unusual about Peter's appearance, well, she never mentioned it, despite the fact that he looked very differently to the photos of him she had been seeing all her life.

Kids' brains were so much more flexible than the grownups'.

"Pete? When you're done here, come down to the lab," he suggested tentatively. "Morgan, don't forget you still have piano practice to finish. Don't keep Peter here all evening, he needs to do some work with Daddy, too."

"But...!"

He looked at her with a smile and she sat down, sighing.

"You won't be going anywhere before all three of you eat something," Pepper hugged him from behind. "How are you, Peter? School OK?"

All of it became something of a ritual. Peter came to the penthouse directly after school, spent an hour with Morgan, ate a reasonable meal (the school cafeteria did not count as source of _reasonable_ food, even in a school that came with a price tag that surprised Tony himself) and disappeared into the lab, working with Tony on the newest project for the company (after homework was done, of course... usually... mostly...). Once they were both happy with the results, they came up to the flat to say goodnight to Morgan (usually half-asleep by that time, but there were cases of her being quite awake and still lively by nine) and Peter stayed to talk to Pepper for a few minutes while Tony took care of Morgans bath and bedtime story. Since the story time varied in duration, that last part would occasionally grow to last an entire hour. Pepper used that time to interrogate Peter (kindly!) on the topic of his school, classmates, projects and MJ, while sharing the tidbits of the everyday company life she thought may be of interest to Peter and gaining his input on matters she needed fresh opinion on. Tony knew that not everything Peter suggested was ever implemented or even discussed further, but the boy had enough good ideas to make his feedback important.

Once the little miss was snoring in her bed, he joined them for a quiet episode of one show or another — Peter had a lot to catch up with, still — and sent the boy downstairs to his aunt before they were all too sleepy to be reasonable.

Sometimes that last part was skipped and Peter spent the night in what became essentially his second bedroom - the same one in which he had stayed during his physiotherapy months - and so their evening talks could be continued way past what Pepper deemed reasonable as bedtime for the "bigger children" - pointing at the both of the "boys" meaningfully when she said that.

May had apparently not been happy the first few times it happened, but Peter had defused that mine before Tony ever learnt about it being a problem.

"I told her that working here, with you, I can still help people while using my additional senses," he said softly over breakfast after one of these late nights. "And that it's way safer than doing it directly on the street, if not as immediately satisfying."

It was, truly, much, much safer.

And until they found some better solution, it would be the only option.

Because the ultimate price Peter had paid for his sacrifice was himself.

He had to stop being Spider Man.

Tony blamed the social media for his kid's loss. Social media and the general public's need for a fresh sensation to focus on.

While he and team were busy scrambling around for a solution to Peter being slowly taken over by the remnants of Infinity Stones, reality happened outside of the Tower, unattended and unnoticed. Only when Peter started using his new laptop and catching up with the news, they found out there was something of a conspiracy theory circulating about him. More than one, in fact. Some enterprising young creator specialising in viral videos had put together a handful of scraps of footage that had been collected from independent sources around the battlefield and uploaded it, complete with pompous music, to his youtube channel, asking "Who Is The Masked Hero?!" in a rather dramatic fashion. That one post changed the character of the hunt for Spider-Man from "several crazy no-life maniacs" to "basically anyone with a smartphone". That meant, unfortunately, more or less the death of Peter's hope for ever getting back into his "onesie", be it home-sewn or nanite-built, even if he regained his full mobility one day.

Since then, all that was left for him was design and lab work - no less fascinating, but much, much less exciting than his good old patrolling. And Tony knew his kid. Even if they had genetically no more in common than any two random individuals on the street, they had one enormous, hugely important thing they shared. They were both bloody adrenaline junkies.

Being a superhero was undoubtedly the least socially inappropriate way of expressing that particular addiction, but still, addiction it was, and while Tony was able to exercise it (and feed it) by participating in an action with some other Avengers every few days, Peter was de facto grounded. Tony was sure the boy had to be squirming in his skin by now.

He really hoped the lab time on that particular day would be at least a bit more exciting than usual.

The dinner done, Morgan was herded back to her room for a change of clothes (spaghetti bolognese tended to end up mostly on her and not in her, but she still loved it) and Peter collected the dishes and loaded the dishwasher, despite Pepper's protests that he could have left this part to her, since Tony had been the one to cook.

Tony was waiting for him impatiently, since finally, everything was ready. Everything.

"Come on," he flashed a smile as the boy - correction, the young man! - made his way cautiously through the main room. "I have something to show you."

Cautiously and slowly. Carefully.

Tony chewed on his lip to avoid giving voice to his extreme annoyance with how everything had turned out for Peter. It was better than some of them had ever imagined it would be, after all...

It had been four months since the removal of the last remnants of the Stones and Peter was still in a lot of pain, just like Strange had predicted. Random flaring up of his synapses, still stabilising proprioception and occasional issues with balance contributed to certain problems with walking. His muscle tone was slowly being rebuilt by intensive exercise, but he was nowhere near his old strength. That would, hopefully, change soon. Hopefully.

The lab was darkened, but Friday had brought the lights slightly up on their entry and the table in the middle was properly illuminated anyway.

He reached out and held his hand out for Peter's, marvelling at the simple trust with which the boy offered it, Tony's fingers encircling the slim-boned wrist with caution.

"I have been working... I have built something for you," he said, measuring his words carefully. "You don't have to accept it, but... but it is yours. You may decline to use it or..."

He took a shuddering breath and slipped a silicone band over Peter's fingers, letting it shrink minutely once it was at the boy's pulse point.

"Well, it's a sports watch," the younger man frowned. "I didn't know you were working on one. What does it do? Apart from self-adjusting, that is," he tried to peer at the display and Tony allowed him that with a smile.

"By itself, not so much. Captures your heartrate, temperature, all this standard stuff."

"OK," the bright eyes blinked. "Thank you..."

There was a "but" in that sentence that Peter wasn't going to voice. Obviously, just a sports watch wasn't exactly up to Tony's usual standard of inventions.

"As I said, by itself, the watch isn't much," Tony continued. "What you need is to put this on your other hand," he slipped a second ring of silicone and steel to Peter's right wrist. "Yes, kiddo, a medical bracelet. Amongst other things. And yes, it does indicate that you have diabetes. Don't even try to argue. Diabetes is the best and closest approximation to what happens to you when you go down."

A frown. A blink.

"Oh," Peter inhaled slowly. " _OH._ But I thought we weren't-- How do I activate them?"

Tony smirked slightly. His little adrenaline junkie.

"You may change it to something else, but I thought using Stephen’s beloved 'boom boom swoosh' was... appropriate."

Peter flexed his fingers slightly.

"Like this?" he mimicked, slowly and cautiously.

"Just like this. Let the bracelets meet on the inside of your wrists on both 'booms'."

"OK. OK. Just... like this?"

A deep breath.

Boom.

Boom.

 _Swoosh_.

Susurrus of tiny gold, red and black tinted plates rushed up Peter's arms, covering him fully in seconds.

"What..." the young man asked, voice distorted by the facemask.

"Drop the helmet, just like in your normal set," he advised and watched as Peter’s astonished face emerged from the cloud of nanites.

"Happy first day of May, Peter," he said softly. "Or, rather, if you agree, Iron Boy. It's the beginning of summer in some cultures, so, a season of growing and... and something. I thought it would be more appropriate than waiting with this until your birthday."

He saw the slowly narrowing eyes of his favourite student.

"Iron _Boy_...?"

"Hey, hey. Official apprenticeship and all that rot. It’s still better than being called Robin, don’t you think?"

Peter rolled his eyes expressively.

"We can think about the specific name later, but, for now..." Tony gestured towards the suit. "What do you think?"

"It’s weird," Peter turned in place, trying out the joints. "I mean... why is it..."

He blinked. Looked down.

"It’s supporting me," he noted calmly, tilting slightly to the left, trying out the balance. "The suit fits, but it’s also _holding_ me, like..."

"Like an exoskeleton," Tony provided. "It has a number of routines inbuilt that are aimed at helping you build up the muscle groups you need - and others, ones that are harder to exercise in a gym. Also, gym is kind of boring, and this, I should hope, is not."

"It feels weird," Peter leaned to the right, experimentally standing on one leg. "Oh, wow."

"I built it partly based on Rhodey's prosthesis, but much more advanced and reduced at the same time. The whole lower half may become completely rigid, supporting your spine and legs, the same way my full armour does, or you may switch to full flexibility, which is about as pliant as your Iron Spider suit. Or any setting in between, depending on your wish. You can either set them to be controlled manually or work with Karen on learning your body's needs and adjusting the rigidity in an intelligent way, depending on her readings. I'd suggest starting with full rigid armour mode and slowly working your way through the other settings."

"So... training wheels all over again?"

Tony grimaced. Because, in a way, it was partially true.

But Peter didn’t seem angry. Or resentful. Or... whatever it was that had led him to breaking out of the controlled use protocol before. Just _curious_.

"Well, not exactly, but if you wish, I can put together an additional simplification routine..."

Hah. That made him smile.

"I don’t mind. I’m completely serious. I mean, the fact that can talk and see? That’s a miracle, hand-delivered by a magician with a degree in neurosurgery. That I’m walking? A princess from a semi-mythical African kingdom did it. My very blood has been supplemented with elements delivered by a woman who can fly between planets on her own volition. My brain is free from influence of a really messed up power source due to a timely intervention of an actual witch. If I go out there and sprain an ankle, I will have pissed off four people straight from a scary fairytale whose work I will be undoing. So, yeah, I’d rather go in the tutorial mode first, before I turn on a thruster and smash my head into the ceiling. Because even if I did kill myself by accident, doctor Stephen would turn the time back and resurrect me, just so that he can give me a stern talking to. Or trashing, if I annoy him sufficiently. Not sure what Shuri, Wanda or Captain Danvers would do to me if I hurt myself, but I’m _so_ not willing to risk finding out."

He leaned in to look the boy straight in the face.

"Are you saying you want me to... to install these safety routines?"

Pale eyes glanced up.

"Yeah," Peter nodded. "I am grownup enough to know I will need them in the coming weeks."

"OK," Tony drew in a breath. "OK. Does this mean you... approve of the design?"

Peter hadn’t even glanced at himself since he had donned the whole set, but now he was turning in place and walking towards the large darkened screen that could serve as a reasonable mirror.

Tony was waiting. Waiting.

Waiting.

"Yeah," Peter breathed. "Looks... looks fine. I mean... these are your colours. I wouldn’t want to..."

"We can change them, if you'd rather," Tony rushed to reassure him, but... but he wished. He _so_ wished. "But I, well, I don’t mind."

Peter nodded jerkily.

"I didn’t want to presume," he said quietly.

Only Peter would think it presumptuous to accept the Iron Man colours when Tony himself had set Peter's suit to use them.

"So... Iron Boy?"

"We’ll have to renegotiate this," the young man laughed. "But, for the time being... yeah, OK. Iron Boy it is. Dad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that it's finished, I'd like to ask you for a favour - since I'm taking a writing course (and soon will start another), I need some feedback. If you decide to leave a comment, can you please write me an answer to one (or more!) of the following?  
> \- what made you go "oooh, sweet!"  
> \- what made you go "argh, that hurt!"  
> \- what made you go "meh"  
> \- what made you go "nope"  
> I strive to improve my writing and that's why I'm asking for these answers. I want to eliminate the "meh" and the "nope" and add more from the more positive side of reaction spectrum :))

**Author's Note:**

> [I made some notes](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/post/185342446291/endgame-what-then) about the potential changes in the world after-Decimation and then after-Return and what could (and would) fail with huge consequences.


End file.
